


Queen under the Mountain

by westrons



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Asshole Dáin Ironfoot, Battle of Five Armies Angst, Between The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, Bisexual Aragorn, Canon-Typical Violence, Characters/Ships To Be Added As We Go, Coming of Age, Consort Bilbo Baggins, Duty, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarf History & Lore, Dwarven Politics, Elf Culture & Customs, Erebor Reclaimed, Eventual Gimli/Legolas, F/F, F/M, Fate, Fellowship of the Ring, Gold Sickness (Tolkien), Gotta Go My Own Way HSM Vibes, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Implied Aragorn/Théoden, Implied Arwen/Aragorn, Implied Frodo/Samwise, Jewish Dwarves, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Possessive Thorin, Post-Quest of Erebor, Queer Middle-earth, Quest of Erebor, Rebuilding Erebor, Trauma, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 112,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27140293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westrons/pseuds/westrons
Summary: The Lonely Mountain is won, but in the wake of the Battle of Five Armies, the Dwarves are left with a young queen who never imagined she would have to rule so soon. The Durins are dead, except for Thorin's daughter. Picks up halfway through "The Hobbit" and will continue past the end of "The Lord of the Rings."
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Original Female Character(s), Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Finduilas of Dol Amroth/Original Female Character(s), Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf, Thorin III Stonehelm/Original Female Character(s), Éomer Éadig/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 85
Kudos: 37





	1. Of Memory and Peaches

**Author's Note:**

> Will the summary get completely revamped? I don't know, maybe.
> 
> Anyway, here's an OC I've had in mind for a long time. We're keeping this as canon-compliant as possible, with some tweaks for fun--and we're aiming for a nice mix of film and book. I'll be adding characters, ships, and other relevant tags as the story grows. I currently have 42 (update: 46) chapters outlined before we reach the finish line, but originally that was 33, so…the story is indeed growing! I try to update at least once a week. Anyway.
> 
> Let's go.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories of Ered Luin, a peach from Beorn's garden, and a generous helping of cottagecore.

Hannelís stretched out her arms in the field, twisting her fingers through the tall blades of grass. The sky was all blue, without a hint of cloud, just the way she liked it. There were no storms coming for them now.

It was her favorite color, blue. It was the color of Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains, of home. It was the color of winter when she dragged her cousins into the snow to sled down the hillside late into the night, and the color of their cheeks when they raced each other back to the warmth of Zaghâl-dûm. Dís scolded them for staying out so long in the cold.

It was the color of their line. When she was younger, Thorin would guide her down each hall to study the paintings and tapestries that told of the House of Durin. They would stop now and then before one portrait or another, and Thorin would test his daughter until she could recite each story from memory. There was the one of their cousin Dáin, his feet atop the slain Orc Azog, his battle-ax raised in victory. That was from the Battle of Azanulbizar, and Dáin had been only 32 then, little more than a child, a hair older than Hannelís was now.

In that same hall was the tapestry that bore the name and likeness of all who had come before them, beginning with Durin himself, who would one day come again and gather his children from every corner of the earth to restore his kingdom of Khazad-dûm. The lines and letters were all embroidered in gold, but the backdrop was all blue, a bold and vibrant sapphire that caught her eyes and made her want to look closer. Hannelís remembered how her father ran his fingers over his brother’s name, Frerin. He had perished in the very same battle that had earned Dáin such great renown. Thorin had tried to protect him, to fight alongside him, but they had become separated in the chaos. He was only 48 when he died.

The tapestry ended there, with Thorin and Frerin and their sister, Dís. “In time, your names will be added,” her father told her, “your cousins’ and yours.” His eyes drifted up the line, through his father, his father’s father, and beyond. His voice was barely a whisper now. “One by one, we pass from this world…but our memories live on, if there are those left to remember. That is why you must know these stories, _chaim sheli_.” _My life._

His words were sad, but beautiful, too, in a weighty sort of way. And when he looked at her then, there was a desperation in her father’s eyes that screamed at her. He needed her to understand. “To forget is a terrible thing. Once we forget, they are gone forever.”

Her father remembered much. Hannelís understood _that._ The long years sat heavy on his heart, his losses an avalanche of stone that could bury him if he let it. But he would not succumb, because there was yet hope, yet breath in his lungs and hands to forge his future. He would remember, and build, and live on.

Hannelís closed her eyes. The sun was warm on her skin. All around her, the hum of bees pulsed through the air, and sometimes the buzzing grew closer as one large, fluffy, winged thing flew lazily overhead. She liked it here, even if the others did not. It was cozy, and sleeping under a real roof was a wonder after the two months of travel since Rivendell. She would miss the roof, and the roaring fire, and the honey-cakes Beorn made that reminded her of the sweet cakes Dís baked to mark the beginning of another Dwarven year.

Something pulled at her hair. No, something was _eating_ her hair, Hannelís realized as her eyes shot open. She twisted her head around to look behind her--and there was one of Beorn’s rabbits, nose twitching happily. Hannelís giggled and sat up and pulled the rabbit into her lap. It squealed at the sudden touch, but soon relaxed under her ministrations and plopped itself down across her legs, stretching luxuriously.

“There you are!” came a voice. Hannelís glanced over, still stroking the rabbit splayed out on her lap. It was Dori, carrying two great pails of fresh milk into the house. “Come along, dear, we’re about to lunch!”

“Coming,” she called back with a grin. She gathered the rabbit into her arms and hugged it one last time. Then, with a quick kiss to its brow, she set it back into the grass.

The table was filled with the fruits of Beorn’s labor, a vibrant spread of tomatoes and blackberries and squash and pears. There were even three peaches, though Beorn observed their season was almost past, and these could well be the last until the next turn of the year. Dori had helped him bake a filling, seedy bread, and of course there was more than enough honey, milk, and butter to go around.

Beorn took one peach for himself, a fair price for sharing his bounty. The second he dropped on Hannelís’ plate, murmuring something about _the youngest._ Seeing the wistful gaze Kíli fixed it with, she made quick work of it with a knife and passed him half, much to his delight. The third peach Beorn gave to Thorin. Hannelís had just taken a great bite of her half when Thorin gave the entire fruit to Bilbo.

Juice dribbled down her chin, forgotten. A similar shock seemed to have taken the others. This shift was not lost on Thorin. He looked--uncomfortable. Vulnerable, almost, as though he had been caught doing something untoward. “What?” He seemed to hear the weakness in his voice, because at once he glowered at them, slammed his hand to the table, and snapped, “What are you looking at? There wasn’t enough to go around. Now _eat._ ”

The Company complied, though they exchanged glances as they did so. The Hobbit looked horribly lost, though he said a polite _thank you_ and gave Thorin a sweet grin. That only seemed to make her father feel worse. He grabbed his mug and drank deep, the milk dripping down onto his beard. He wiped it away angrily, self-consciously. He stuffed chunks of bread into his mouth as he stared down the table, searching for anyone who was still looking his way. His eyes found Hannelís, who was, well, still looking.

Thorin jabbed a finger in her direction. “Lís…” he began, clearly trying to sound as threatening as he could with half a loaf of bread in his mouth.

Hannelís shoved the rest of her peach into her mouth. “I’m doing what you told me to do, I’m eating,” she insisted, sounding just as threatening as her father--which was to say, not at all.

His eyes narrowed, and she fixed her attention on her plate, so that he could not doubt the truth of her words. She spread a generous helping of butter onto a slice of bread and took a bite. “This is excellent,” she said to Dori and Beorn, “especially the butter. So creamy.”

“Thank you, dear,” said Dori, casting a nervous glance in Thorin’s direction. Beside the fire, Beorn hummed a deep _Mmm,_ which Hannelís supposed was the most she was going to get out of him.

Kíli caught her eyes and winked. “Yes, Beorn,” he said loudly, smiling back at the great behemoth of a man, “the peaches are perfect, just ripe.”

“They were overripe,” grunted Beorn.

“Oh,” faltered Kíli, looking to Hannelís for help, “I--that’s not what I thought, didn’t you--” But his gaze drifted to Thorin, and he rather lost the will to continue. Hannelís looked back at her father; he had fixed Kíli with a truly frightening glare, his butter-knife gripped tight in his fist. Beside the Dwarf-king, Bilbo had gone scarlet. The peach-gift meant something, he was realizing.

It wasn’t the gift itself, so much as the way the gift was given. Thorin had handed the peach to Bilbo without a thought, as though it was second nature for him to think of the Hobbit as one to whom sweet things were given. Their relationship had changed, Hannelís knew, since the Company had escaped the Misty Mountains. In expecting Bilbo to abandon them, only to learn that Bilbo had no intention of doing so, because he respected Thorin and wanted to see his home restored…the Hobbit had grown in Thorin’s eyes. He looked more kindly on him now. Perhaps even with affection. The peach, however, was the first _open_ show of affection.

Fíli tried to save his brother. “You meant the pears, Kee,” he murmured, knocking Kíli’s arm with his elbow. “The _pears_ are perfect.”

“Of course I meant the pears,” Kíli hissed back at Fíli, so convincingly Hannelís almost believed him.

“Might’ve even _said_ pears, and we misheard him,” she added. That got the focus off of Kíli, at least.

Thorin watched her for a long moment, as the Company seemed to all hold their breath as one. Beorn was the only one unaffected by the Dwarf-king’s stern silence. He gave another low _Mmm_ and pushed off from the hearth, straightening to his full, fearsome height. He reached over Bifur’s head and scooped a massive fistful of berries before taking his leave. The skin-changer had run out of patience for Dwarves, it seemed.

At last, Thorin leveled his knife in his daughter’s direction and said, “Your hair is a mess. Come to me after we eat. I’m braiding it.” With that, he returned to his meal and would not say more.

Hannelís ran a hand through her curls, and indeed, she could barely move her fingers for all the tangles. Ori reached up and plucked something off the top of her head, presenting her with a long stalk of grass. Laughter bubbled up inside her, relieved to be getting off so easy. She spun the blade between her fingers and grinned. “Yes, Abba.”

And so, when the meal was done, Thorin gathered his comb and a pot of oil and called to her once more. “You should have braided it this morning,” he chided, “before you went wild in the fields.”

“Fíli offered to do it. He’s better than me, but I forgot.”

“I see.” Once Hannelís was seated in front of him, he began running the comb through her sandy hair. He smoothed the knots and tangles that had worked themselves into her curls during their winged ride to the Carrock the night before last.She might’ve fixed it herself yesterday, but in all the excitement of meeting a man who was also a bear, her hair just hadn’t seemed important. It was only when they were falling asleep that Fíli told her, his voice swallowed by half a yawn, to remind him to braid it in the morning. But when the morning came, she’d forgotten.

If any knots gave Thorin a hard time, Hannelís couldn’t tell; his work was gentle and patient. Soon, he was humming. She recognized the tune immediately. It was the Song of the Lonely Mountain:

_The wind came down from mountains cold,_

_And like a tide it roared and rolled;_

_The branches groaned, the forest moaned,_

_And leaves were laid upon the mould._

The tangles gone, Thorin turned to the small pot beside him. He warmed the oil in his palms before massaging it into her curls, first with his hands and then with his comb, starting past her shoulders and working it down to where her hair ended near her waist. Still humming, he lifted a lock and threw it over her shoulder, inviting her inspection.

Hannelís ran the lock between her fingers, enjoying the smooth texture. When she turned it this way and that, it caught the light of the fire and shone brilliantly, the yellow color turning almost gold in the flames' reflection. Finally, she lifted it to her nose and inhaled; the oil had a citrus and woody scent. She threw the hair back over her shoulder, smiling.

As Thorin braided, the humming grew to a murmur, until he was singing to himself:

_The wind went on from West to East;_

_All movement in the forest ceased,_

_But shrill and harsh across the marsh_

_Its whistling voices were released._

The Company began to pick up the refrain. Nori and Dori crooned in harmony, Ori napping peacefully at their side:

_The grasses hissed, their tassels bent,_

_The reeds were rattling--on it went_

_O’er shaken pool under heavens cool_

_Where racing clouds were torn and rent._

Dwalin and Glóin joined next, followed soon by Bofur:

_It passed the Lonely Mountain bare_

_And swept above the dragon’s lair:_

_There black and dark lay boulders stark_

_And flying smoke was in the air._

Even Bilbo was humming the now-familiar tune, though he had not yet learned the words to every stanza:

_It left the world and took its flight_

_Over the wide seas of the night._

_The moon set sail upon the gale,_

_And stars were fanned to leaping light._

Thorin parted her hair in the middle and wove the top half into two large braids, one on each side. These he framed with smaller braids, before pinning them together at the back of her head. Then he took the bottom half and braided two long, thick plaits, and wrapped them up around the others, all the way around her head like a crown. When the finishing touch was perfected, he leaned back and said, “There. Now you may run wild to your heart’s content.”

His voice was light, but when Hannelís looked back at him, his eyes were dimmed by the memory the song told. There were tears there, yet unshed, though he sought to hide them. She saw it all the same, the tears and his grief and the whole calamitous weight of Smaug’s doom, even now, a lifetime later.

She wanted to ask why he sang the song, if it made him weep. Why would he remember, when the memory was so painful? Hannelís did not know if she would have the heart to remember something like that. She thought it might destroy her, to witness such loss and survive it. She was not strong like her father.

But she did not ask. Instead, she smiled and kissed his cheek and thanked him. Then she returned to the sunlit fields, where there were no dragons, and no sacked cities, and no dead of any kind to think of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, also, they're Jewish Dwarves, so you might pick up on references to Jewish culture/ritual/etc. Since Khuzdul is, like, the one language Tolkien didn't elaborate on, I occasionally substitute in Hebrew.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	2. Dark and Darker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the Company is lost in Mirkwood, Hannelís overhears Thorin telling Bilbo a story.

“Why is this forest different from all other forests?”

Chuckles rippled through the Company, but they quickly died out. Dense, dark branches loomed overhead, their ends sharp as knives where the leaves had already fallen. Twisted roots jutted out from the earth and disrupted the path, and rotting leaves littered the ground, leaving a slick waste behind. Hannelís found herself staring at her boots just to avoid falling on her face. The levity from Dwalin’s jest was short-lived.

“Hannelís should be asking that, no?” asked Balin, playing along. “Being the youngest, I mean.”

“I don’t think I know _these_ words,” she said.

“Do any of us?” said Bofur, to more tense laughter from the Company.

Dwalin referred to the Chag Briya, the festival that commemorated the creation of the Dwarves by Mahal, their Vala. Each year, they retold the story. After Eru Ilúvatar had created Men and Elves, but before they had set foot in Middle-earth, Mahal the Smith had crafted in secret his own children. He formed the Seven Fathers from stone mined deep below an ancient mountain, and imbued in them the same desire to create and forge and build that he himself possessed. He looked on his children and loved them. But his secret was discovered.

Eru Ilúvatar called to him: “Mahal!”

Mahal answered, “Here I am.”

And Eru Ilúvatar said, “Take your children, your only children, whom you love, and destroy them, for it was not given to you to create life.”

Mahal obeyed. He lifted his great hammer and raised it high, until a long shadow cast his children in darkness. And Mahal wept bitterly, watching his children cower in terror. Yet before his hammer could fall, Eru Ilúvatar stayed his hand. “Mahal, Mahal!” he cried once more.

And again, Mahal answered, “Here I am.”

“Do not harm them,” the Great Vala said. “Because you have not withheld your children, I will surely bless you and them and make their descendants as numerous as the stars in the heavens. And they shall take possession of the mountains and raise in them vast halls of stone, and they will bless the world with the works of their hands. Because of your great obedience, I will do this.”

Eru Ilúvatar desired to adopt the Dwarves for his own, to make them his Third Children after the Elves and Men who had not yet come to dwell in Middle-earth. But the Seven Fathers resisted, crying out instead to Mahal their Maker. They would have no other Vala than the one who had made them. And so they and every Dwarf since worshipped Mahal, and none other. This was the story they told themselves.

Each year at Chag Briya, it was given to the youngest Dwarves to ask the first question: “Why is this night different from all other nights?” The idea was that the youngest might not yet know the story, though Hannelís could not remember a time when she hadn’t known it. She could almost imagine Thorin whispering it over her cradle, a lullaby of sorts. In any case, the youngest asked the question, and that was the cue for the story to begin. It was an amusing reference, and fitting, as this forest was indeed unlike all others.

More than a week had passed since they entered Mirkwood, and _mirk_ was a good name for it. The forest was an endless misery. The canopy was so packed with trees that the sun had no hope of peaking through, and the air had a persistent damp chill that had long since settled in Hannelís’ bones. There were Elves somewhere in the forest, Thorin said; Hannelís found herself pitying their wretched lives, if _this_ was their dreary home.

Despite the gloom, her father’s spirits remained remarkably high. Of course, _high_ for Thorin was still lower than most. Still, he had yet to give in to despair like some of the others, even when Bombur fell in the river and plunged into an enchanted sleep for three days. Hannelís suspected the cause for her father’s resilience was Bilbo.

He increasingly sought out the Hobbit for a companion on the long, dark walks that now occupied their days. He was smitten by the tales Bilbo would tell about the Shire, from the first time he saw Gandalf’s fireworks as a child to the dozenth time he’d filched his father’s pipeweed as a tween. Once, as the Company gathered around a handful of pathetic, sputtering fires, Hannelís overheard her father telling a story of his own.

His voice was only a murmur, such that Bilbo had to lean in closer to hear, but Hannelís picked out parts from the next fire over. When Dís was born, Thorin toiled day and night to make a present worthy of his new sister. He crafted a diadem of braided silver, arrayed in rose quartz and amethyst. He gave it to her on the day of her naming--though, being an infant, Thráin and Rivkís had to thank him for her. When she outgrew it only a few months later, Thorin cried. Bilbo smiled at that, and told Thorin he was a sweet elder brother. He touched Thorin’s arm as he said it.

Hannelís looked away, suddenly feeling as though she were intruding. She had not heard that story before. Bilbo was right; it _was_ sweet. Hannelís wondered what had possessed her father to tell it.

He liked Bilbo. She supposed that must be the reason. Thorin liked Bilbo, and he wanted desperately for Bilbo to like him back. Hannelís thought he needn’t try so hard; it was plain the Hobbit admired him.

Dwarves were particular in love. As far as Hannelís was aware, her father had never loved anyone. He may have tumbled with Dwalin more than once when they were both young warriors, but their mutual attraction had never blossomed into love, and had instead simmered into a lifelong friendship. Dwarves were unabashed in their bedding, but would only marry for love, save in the case of royals who were in need of heirs. After marriage, one was supposed to restrain oneself to only one partner, though exceptions could be made with the express consent of all parties. But marriage was rare for Dwarves, as love came infrequently, or was unrequited.

But Thorin _had_ married, on the yellow plains of Rohan where he toiled for a number of years in his efforts to support his wandering, exiled people. He took to wife a shield-maiden of the Westfold, a spirited and golden-haired woman named Hathilde. Thorin remembered her fondly. He had cared for her, in his way, though he wed her out of duty to his line more than anything else. She gave him two children: a squalling, rosy-cheeked girl and, four years later, a black-haired boy who died when he was only a day old. He was buried without a name.

Hannelís did not remember much of her life in Rohan. It was not long after her brother’s death that a plague took her mother as well, along with hundreds of others as it ravaged the countryside. After that, there was nothing anchoring Thorin to that foreign land, and so they journeyed west, through Dunland and up the Greenway, until one day Hannelís lifted her eyes and found the distant, dim blue of Ered Luin gazing back.

And so, Hannelís had little reference for what it looked like for her father to fall in love. But perhaps peaches and whispered stories and light, half-hidden touches were just it. Hannelís liked the way Thorin smiled more easily around Bilbo. If this was indeed the beginnings of love, she hoped it would continue.

The Company soon settled in for sleep, and then a new day dawned--or it might have dawned, if the sun could find its way to them through the persistent darkness. They were four days past the river that had nearly drowned Bombur, and nine days past the forest’s edge where they had bid Gandalf farewell.

The Wizard had scouted the land between Beorn’s home and Mirkwood, to ensure safe passage from Orcs or other foes. Then he had returned to relieve the skin-changer of his hosting duties, ferry the Company to the western gate where the winding path through Mirkwood began--and promptly disappear into the distance. They would see him again, he promised, though he could not say when. _And keep to the path,_ were his parting words. And they had. Hannelís was beginning to fear the path would never end.

It was not long before her stomach started gnawing at her. They’d been without food for a day now. As much as they had tried to ration it better, there were very many of them, and the forest path was never-ending. Thorin said--hoped, rather--that the eastern gate could not be more than two days’ walk. They would skirt the realm of the Elven-king soon, if his memory served correctly, and from that point the Long Lake was less than a day ahead of them. They could eat to their hearts’ content in Lake-town, and still have another week left to rest and plan before Durin’s Day.

Hannelís was just imagining the feast she’d have upon their arrival--roast chicken, with onion and garlic and crispy potatoes--when Glóin cried out in a hushed voice: “Look! Lights, in the forest!”

They followed his gaze, and there they were: bright lights, twinkling between the trees ahead. Shapes of figures loomed there, too, dancing amidst the bobbing glow. No sooner had the Company seen this than the smell hit them, a veritable wave of the most delectable, tantalizing scents. Rosemary and thyme, a hint of clove, fresh-baked bread, with meat and vegetables roasting on a fire. Hannelís’ mouth was watering. Everything happened very quickly then.

“Elves!” muttered Thorin, his hand reaching for Orcrist’s hilt.

“Food!” yelled Ori, bounding forward.

“Wait for me!” went Dori. Nori was one step behind, his tongue out to taste the smell on the air.

“Stop! The path--” shouted Balin, but Dwalin was already pulling him into the trees, yelling threats after Nori over what Dwalin would do to him if he nicked the best food first.

Soon the entire Company was rushing into the woods, toward the lights, toward the singing and the dancing that grew louder with every second. But as soon as they entered the clearing in which the great feast was roaring, everything vanished. The lights, the food, the Elves were gone, and the Company found themselves surrounded by a thick, black fog.

The moment the cloud hit them, Hannelís felt her head go fuzzy. All of a sudden, she rather fancied a nap. She stumbled into one of the others--“ _ouch,_ that was my foot!” said Fíli--and she blinked, her eyelids heavy. It was all too much effort to keep them open, and as a sweet warmth filled her, Hannelís decided it was too silly to try. Around her, she heard the sound of her fellows plopping to the ground one by one. Already, Bombur was snoring. That was the last thing she heard, and then the darkness took her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chag Briya is a Passover substitute meaning, roughly, "festival of creation." But instead of an Exodus-type narrative to be the focus, I opted for the classic Dwarven creation story from The Silmarillion.
> 
> Coming soon, much to Thorin's dismay: Elves.


	3. The Halls of the Elven-king

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Company finds it very hard to believe that Bilbo single-handedly saved them from giant spiders, and Bilbo finds their disbelief very offensive. Also, Elves.

The first thing Hannelís felt was the distinct sensation of being confined.

Her eyes flew open. The forest was dark--that was normal, but she was surrounded by massive blobs of white, which was _not._ She looked down, only to discover that _she_ was a blob of white, too. As the grogginess dissipated, she realized she was _encased_ in white, actually. Thousands upon thousands of silk-thin threads of sticky…spider web. That’s what it was. She was wrapped like a fly for the feast.

“Shit,” she said, before it occurred to her that silence was perhaps the safer option. She didn’t know how a spider could have caught something as big as her, let alone produce enough web to cover her entire body, but she didn’t have time to consider the mystery. Behind her, something was approaching, leaves crackling under its feet. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

“Good, you’re awake.” It was Bilbo. He knelt in front of her and began sawing through the web; although it felt sturdy to Hannelís, it tore easily under his blade, and then she was tumbling out onto the ground.

She caught herself, barely, though her arms ached with pins and needles as the blood rushed back into her limbs after being crushed together for so long. She sat back and rubbed them, grimacing, as Bilbo made quick work of the remaining cocoons. “What happened?"

“Spiders,” was the Hobbit’s answer, which seemed a bit obvious.

“The Elves tricked us,” growled Dwalin, pulling Hannelís to her still-numb feet. The tattooed Dwarf was peeling cobwebs from his beard with a scowl. Around him, half of the Company was already free. “Put us under some enchantment so we fell asleep, and left us to those monsters.”

“The Elves didn’t trick _shit,_ ” said Balin, newly-freed from his silk prison. He pushed himself into a standing position and twisted to both sides, his back cracking loudly as he continued, “For all we know, they weren’t really Elves, just an illusion. We never should have left the path.”

“Fuck your blessed path,” grumbled Dwalin.

“ _Please,_ ” said Dori, stumbling over himself to cover Ori’s ears, “language!”

Ori batted his brother’s hands away, his ears going red. Kíli’s laughter was quickly shushed by Bilbo, who hissed, “They could come _back,_ do you _want_ them to _eat_ you?”

“They’re spiders,” snorted Kíli with a roll of his eyes.

Bilbo’s hands flew to his curls, tugging at them anxiously. “They--they’re not _normal_ spiders!”

“What do you mean?” asked Fíli.

“They were giants,” said Dwalin, coming to the Hobbit’s aid. “I saw them, before he chased them off.”

“Giant spiders that ran from _Bilbo,_ ” Bofur repeated slowly, as though he wasn’t understanding Dwalin.

“Yes,” said Dwalin and Bilbo in unison--Bilbo with a touch of indignation.

Hannelís shared a look with her cousins. “No, I don’t believe that,” she said, while Fíli scoffed, “Come on, Dwalin.”

“Which _part_ don't you believe?” Bilbo challenged. He rounded on Hannelís, hands on his hips. She even thought she saw him tap his foot at her, though she might have imagined it.

“The giant spiders, obviously,” she said at the exact moment Nori shouted, “ _Fuck._ ”

Unfortunately, the giant spiders were real. A horde of them, the size of wolves, came skittering over a hill toward the Dwarves. Their bodies were bulbous and hairy, their faces overtaken by rows of shiny, black eyes. The sound of hundreds of sharp, beaky pincers clacking at their supper sent shivers running down Hannelís’ spine. Kíli cast a white-faced glance at Bilbo and said, “I never doubted you for an instant,” before taking off in the opposite direction. The rest of the Company followed.

They tore through the trees, not caring that they were lost, not caring if they were carrying themselves farther and farther from the path and any hope of seeing daylight again. They were being hunted, and that was all that mattered.

They bounded headfirst into a wide, open clearing. Halfway to the other side, Hannelís looked back over her shoulder--and the spiders had stopped. They gathered at the clearing’s edge, raising their stubbly legs as though they could catch the Dwarves if they only reached far enough--but they would not enter further. “They’ve stopped!”

Bombur tripped over himself checking to see if her words were true, and his brothers crashed into him, and soon half of the Company was collapsed on the floor of the clearing, puffing hard. “I don’t understand,” cried Bilbo, flung upside down over Óin and Dori, “ _why_ have they stopped?”

As he asked this, the Company watched the spiders turn and skitter away. Slowly, the Dwarves recovered their breathing and righted themselves, dusting off their cloaks and exchanging horrified yet relieved glances. Little by little, the clearing fell into an uneasy silence. Then, Balin asked a question that made Hannelís’ blood run cold: “Where is Thorin?”

Hannelís whipped her head around, her eyes jumping from Dwarf to Dwarf. Balin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Óin, Dori, Dwalin, Nori, Fíli, Ori, Kíli, Glóin--no Thorin. The air hitched in her throat. “Abba!” she shouted, fighting to keep the fear from overtaking her. They were separated. _How_ had they been separated? Desperately, she tried to remember the last time she had seen her father.

The lights. The lights in the woods. She spun around in a circle, praying if she just looked hard enough, her father would appear in front of her. Everyone was shouting Thorin’s name now. _Thorin. Thorin. Thorin!_ Her voice rang above them all. “Abba!”

Dwalin was the first to shake the panic. “Bilbo!” He grasped the Hobbit by his shoulders, shaking him roughly. “Did you see him when you found us with the spiders? Was there another cocoon?”

“I--I--” Tears sprang to Bilbo’s eyes. “I don’t remember, I don’t--”

“ _Think,_ ” said Dwalin, shaking him again. Hannelís could hear the dread in his voice, the growing possibility that they had somehow left Thorin behind--back in the webs, where the spiders were surely quickly returning.

 _He’s alone._ The thought paralyzed her, choked her until she could not breathe. There were tears on her cheeks now, though she did not remember them falling. “Abba!” she screamed in a strangled voice.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dwalin raise his ax as he yelped in surprise. As one, the Company turned--and then Hannelís heard them, the sound of dozens of feet hitting the forest floor, soft yet sure, as the Elves gave up their silent pursuit and fell from the trees. They were on them in an instant, bowstrings pulled, swords leveled in threat--a party of ten or so Wood-elves led by two slender figures, one blond and one with hair like fire.

The silver-haired one raised his own bow. “Do not resist,” he said in a clear, measured voice, “and you shall not be harmed.”

Hannelís looked to Dwalin. Without Gandalf and Thorin, he was the next natural leader. She saw the way he considered their options, counting the Elves, weighing their chances against them. The Elves knew the woods, but there were more Dwarves. Still, Hannelís thought, seeing the way the Elves moved as one, synchronous unit, the Company’s greater numbers were nothing compared to skill. She thought of Ori and Dori, of Bilbo. They were not all fighters.

Looking back at her fellows, Hannelís realized with a jolt that Bilbo was gone. She looked this way and that--but the Hobbit had disappeared. Had he gone after Thorin? Did he run when he saw the Elves? But before she could search further, Dwalin had made his decision.

With a grunt of disgust, he tossed his ax to the ground. The rest of the Company followed suit, ridding themselves of their weapons as the Elves made their approach. The red-haired Elf patted Hannelís down before binding her hands. The Dwarves were roped together and led off by their captors. As they left the clearing, Hannelís looked back once last time, as though this final time would be the one when she saw Thorin and Bilbo. The clearing was empty.

The Halls of the Elven-king were a system of caves that began only a short ways from where the Company was found. They might’ve stumbled upon the Elven realm themselves if they’d had the chance, though they never would have sought it out intentionally. Hannelís knew well her father’s view on these Mirkwood Elves, who lived so very close to Erebor and Dale yet refused to lift even a finger when the doom of Smaug came. They would see all the mortals of the world pass away before they would risk their lives to save anyone, so closely they guarded their precious immortality. What was unending life worth, her father would ask, if you never helped anyone but yourself?

When they passed through the tall gates, Hannelís’ breath was stolen away. The caves were indeed made of stone, carved with an eye for beauty, but she had never seen caves so _green._ There were trees within the rock walls, their roots stretching so deep into the caverns below, Hannelís wondered if they ever reached the bottom. The sun peaked through exquisite patterns in the ceiling, nurturing the moss and flowers and vines that made these caves feel hardly like caves at all, and more like a sheltered, secret, wholly alien world. Waterfalls, diverted from the great river that roared just beyond the gates, trickled down into crystal streams beneath the walkways. It was an architectural feat, a work of art. Hannelís could not help but admire it.

The group halted at a fork in the walkway. They could either go down, or continue forward. The red-haired Elf turned to the silver-haired one. “I will take them to the cells,” she said, “if you would inform your--”

“Captain.” Another Elf was approaching from the path ahead, a prisoner in tow. It was Thorin.

Hannelís gasped. Her father looked well and unhurt, though surlier than she had seen him in a long while. She smiled, despite the situation they were in, because she could not hold back the sheer relief. Without thinking, she pulled against her bonds, leaning this way and that until she had a clear view of her father and shouting, “Abba! Abba!”

Thorin’s eyes widened when they met hers--but not in a good way, not with the same relief. He shook his head, not enough to be obvious but enough that it sent a message. Speaking was a mistake, the motion said. But he needn’t have tried to signal that to her; it was already too late.

The blond Elf turned, searching for the source of the noise. His eyes found her. “That one.” His voice was colder now.

Another Elf grabbed Hannelís’ shoulder and shoved the other Dwarves aside, walking her through the midst of them even as they struggled against their bonds to shove the Elf back. He presented her to the blond Elf, who frowned down at her in a mixture of disdain and suspicion. Hannelís held her breath, waiting. “What does that mean?” His eyes narrowed. “ _Ah-ba_?”

He looked between her and Thorin, once, then twice, then again. Perhaps he saw some resemblance. The red-haired Elf seemed to have reached her own conclusion. “Legolas,” she said, and when his gaze moved to her, Hannelís exhaled. It was some small comfort, at least, to have his eyes off of her.

The other Elf blinked at him--at Legolas, Hannelís corrected herself. “ _Ah-ba,_ ” she said slowly. Then, with intention: “ _Ada._ ”

Thorin jerked against his restraints, baring his teeth. At the same time, Hannelís’ shoulders sagged. She knew enough Sindarin to know the connection had been made. Thorin had made sure she knew, her and Fíli and Kíli, because they were heirs of Durin and as such, more was expected of them. He had tutored them in Sindarin and in Dalish, in case the day ever came when they returned to their ancestral home, where they would need to forge relationships, alliances with their neighbors. Hannelís had been ready, but she had not expected to be tested in quite this way.

 _Ada_ meant _father,_ the same as _Abba_ in Khuzdul. It was one of the similarities between the tongues. Dwarves kept their language secret from outsiders, but the red-haired Elf was smart enough to see the truth all the same. The reactions of Thorin and Hannelís were only further proof.

Legolas spoke quickly to the Elf who guarded Hannelís, switching from Westron to Sindarin. _Take her to my father,_ was her rough translation. _She is the Dwarf-king’s daughter._ “Tauriel,” he added, speaking to the red-haired captain, “escort the rest to the cells. The king, lock up alone.”

Tauriel was the captain, not Legolas, but she bowed her head and complied. She gestured to the other guards, who began leading the Company down the stairs, presumably to the dungeon. Thorin, too, was taken below. With that, Legolas took his leave of Hannelís and her guard, walking back the same way they came.

The Elf-guard guided Hannelís up the long walkway, which rose steadily until it reached the highest point in the caves. At the end of the path was a round dais built into the side of the tallest tree she had ever seen. A throne was carved into the branches that loomed over the platform, arrayed in blooming vines with flowers of every color. And resting on the throne was the Elven-king.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Hannelís realized Legolas was the king’s son. _Take her to my father,_ he had said. That explained why he could order Tauriel, a captain in her own right. But that was rather beside the point at the present moment.

The King of the Woodland Realm was taller than his son, but had the same long, silver-blond hair. He wore a flowing robe of braided gold, and a crown of crimson berries and yellow-orange leaves. It was quite fitting for autumn, so much so that Hannelís briefly wondered if he had a crown for winter, spring, and summer, too. Why not, when one lived forever? One had to have something to entertainment oneself with as the ages rolled by, and a collection of seasonally appropriate crowns could provide plenty of entertainment and aesthetic pleasure. Perhaps he preferred fashion to saving the lives of thousands of Men and Dwarves.

The Elven-king raised a thick, dark eyebrow at her, though he directed his question at the guard beside her. “Who is this?”

“The Dwarf’s daughter,” came his reply.

Dwarf _-king,_ Hannelís wanted to correct through clenched teeth. The Elven-king gazed at the guard in wonder, before fixing Hannelís in his gaze. He studied her for a long, drawn-out moment, reclining still in his floral forest-chair.

A chuckle rumbled low in his chest, and slowly, a smile lifted the corners of his lips. He rose from his throne and seemed to glide to her, and when he reached her, he bowed so low his hair brushed the floor. It took everything for Hannelís not to sneer, so heavy was the air of ridicule in this gesture. Instead, she held her head high and banished all fear. She would not tremble before him.

At last, he raised his gaze and met her eyes. “Welcome, princess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the next chapter are dedicated to Ellie (ohelrond) who loves Elves and is very sad I haven't included Elrond yet (don't worry, he'll show up eventually). Also, Thranduil's wife is alive and she as a character is FULLY dedicated to Ellie and is Ellie's creation, even though Ellie thinks I'm very homophobic for having Thranduil be married to a woman. But as Ellie pointed out, it's clearly a lavender marriage. Also, Thranduil's throne is covered in rainbow flowers, so…how homophobic can I be, really?
> 
> Okay, and now you can rest peacefully knowing I won't update for the fourth day in a row tomorrow because Shabbat starts in about an hour. I make no promises re: whether you'll be free from my torment on Sunday, however. Anyway.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!


	4. …and the Elven-queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil questions Hannelís, but his wife isn't happy about him interrogating a child.

“I take it the food is to your liking, princess.”

Thranduil had continued to call Hannelís that, even after he had learned her name. _Princess._ It felt demeaning coming from his lips. It was wrong, too. Dwarves reserved titles for crowned royalty; even Thorin was not yet _uzbad,_ because he was not yet King under the Mountain. Erebor needed to be reclaimed before that was possible. For now, he was simply Thorin--and she, just Hannelís.

The Elven-king was an excellent host. He lavished her with more food and drink than she could stomach: piping hot pies with spiced fruit, vegetables doused in a rich cream sauce, and mulled Dorwinion wine, to start. They sat on either end of a long table in the banquet hall, a chandelier of antlers glowing overhead. The curved cave-walls were rubbed smooth and featured nature scenes, painted with a delicate hand.

The forest depicted here was very different from the Mirkwood Hannelís had come to know. Half of the forest felt somewhat familiar, as though it were Mirkwood with less of the _mirk,_ a greener and happier place with no giant carnivorous spiders or other magical dangers. The other side of the hall showed a lighter forest, one with white trees and golden leaves, with less undergrowth below, and less abundant wildlife. The half that was almost like Mirkwood had owls and rabbits, hedgehogs and a herd of deer, headed by a great white stag like the one the Company had seen nearly a week ago. The lighter side had something odd in the distance that Hannelís couldn’t quite place. There were lights and platforms high in some of the trees, almost like a settlement of sorts. Though that seemed silly to her; why would anyone want to live up in trees?

Thranduil smiled at her expectantly, awaiting a response. Hannelís sighed, and forced back a smile of her own. “The food is wonderful, thank you.” In truth, she was disappointed by how much she liked it. She wanted to hate it, because she knew she _should,_ because while they dined, Thranduil held her people prisoner. But she was hungry, and the food was, unfortunately, delicious.

“Good.” The Elven-king’s grin widened. “I wanted to take care of that, before anything else. Your father could not stop saying how starving you all were. It was all he _would_ say. _Because we were starving,_ over and over.” His voice went low and gravelly as he imitated Thorin. It was a fair impression of her father, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t offensive.

“Well, we _were_ starving, your Grace.” Thranduil’s smile faltered then, as though he was worried the Company’s hunger was all Hannelís would speak of, too. She fidgeted with a roll, tearing it into pieces while she considered his words. Without looking up from her plate, she asked, “What do you mean, before anything else?”

“Before we get to know one another.” Her eyes met his, and his grin was back. He took a long drink from his goblet. “You make me very curious, all of you. Why are fourteen Dwarves trespassing in my realm, with a long-exiled Dwarf-king leading them? Why are they heading east, toward the Lonely Mountain? Why _now,_ after all this time? You’ve inspired so many questions, princess.”

Again, she had the distinct impression she was being mocked. The title grated on her. Hannelís sipped her wine politely. Dwarves were more partial to beer and ale, but this was fine enough, albeit too strong for her liking. She had barely touched her goblet, and already she felt more relaxed than she should, given her present circumstances.

She pushed the goblet away. “Your Grace, I feel I should warn you, if you think keeping me fed and watered will get you answers, you’ll be disappointed.” She considered saying _I regret you’ll be disappointed,_ but she didn’t regret it at all, and saw no point in lying. “I have no intention of telling you anything.” In any case, based on his questions, and the way he focused on Thorin and the Lonely Mountain, it seemed he already had an idea.

Thranduil’s smile had never seemed kind, but it took on something more sinister now. “Oh, I’m not worried,” he said, draining his goblet once more. He poured himself another glass, his fourth--no, fifth, of the evening. Hannelís hated to admit it impressed her, how little the wine seemed to affect him. It _almost_ made her respect him, just a little bit. He continued: “You will find me a most patient host. I am willing to wait as long as necessary to have my answers.”

Her gut twisted uneasily, though she hid it well. She could imagine how long _long_ was in the eyes of the Elves. He would keep them here forever, if it pleased him--and it would please him greatly, Hannelís thought, seeing the look of satisfaction that overtook him now. They would waste away here, all the Company, and perhaps after their deaths Thranduil would keep their skeletons rotting in their cells, as a memento of their doomed venture.

They were little more than a week from Durin’s Day. Once the sun set and the last light was gone, Thrór’s hidden entrance would vanish for another year, and their hopes of entering the Lonely Mountain dashed with it. If Hannelís told the Elven-king what he wanted to know, the Company could yet succeed in their quest. But there was no guarantee Thranduil would release them even after he got his answers, or what toll he would exact once he knew they could soon be in possession of Erebor’s vast treasure.

He popped a grape in his mouth and chewed. “How long do Dwarves live, anyway?” he asked, in a voice that said he had never cared to learn.

 _Not long at all, if a dragon is involved._ Hannelís swallowed the words before they could spill out. Thranduil was already threatening them with life imprisonment; best not to risk whatever punishment rudeness might earn her. She stuck with the facts: “Most see somewhere in the range of two hundred and thirty, two hundred and seventy years.”

He hummed in response to that, though it almost sounded like a laugh. He gestured vaguely in her direction. “And you are how old, princess?”

Her hands formed fists in her lap. “My name is Hannelís, your Grace.”

While she answered, Thranduil had tossed his head back to catch the grapes he now lobbed at it. He caught them all, unsurprisingly. He washed them down with a gulp of wine and nodded at her, chuckling again. “Of course, Hannelís it is. You may, of course, continue calling me _your Grace._ ” He seemed tickled by his words. “Your age, Hannelís?”

“Thirty, your Grace.”

He clicked his tongue and pulled a face, like it was adorable, what she’d said. “So young. And yet your father would lead you into such peril, journeying so far from home? Or is it _toward_ home?”

She ignored the root of his questions; she would give him nothing of Erebor. “He is my father,” she said simply. “Wherever he goes, that is where I belong.”

“That is sweet.” He chuckled in an indulgent, sugary way. “ _You_ are sweet. What a devoted daughter you are.”

“Thranduil.” The voice came from behind Hannelís; she turned, and there in the stone archway was a tall, beautiful she-Elf with hair like spun gold. Hannelís supposed all Elves were nice to look at, but there was a particular radiance to the lady before her now, a grace that went beyond her ability to describe.

Across the long table, the Elven-king seemed to shrink for the briefest of moments at the reproach in her voice, before straightening in his chair and fixing her in his gaze. “Galadhrían,” he responded, in the same stern tone.

Galadhrían floated to Thranduil and bent at her waist, planting a single kiss on the Elven-king’s lips. _So._ Hannelís had just met the Elven _-queen,_ it seemed. “You’ve drunk too much, my love.” When she said it, she giggled, and it was like the sound of bells ringing over one another. To Hannelís’ ear, it was almost like music.

“Hardly,” he answered, reaching up to cup her cheek and pull her down for a slower, deeper kiss. Yes, certainly this was the Elven-queen.

“That is enough,” she said, though she ran a finger across his jaw as she spoke. Then she stood tall and faced Hannelís. Her smile was kind. “Surely, our young guest is weary. Your questions can wait. Hannelís, I will show you to your chamber.”

With that, Galadhrían freed her from Thranduil’s interrogation and guided her from the banquet hall. Soon, they emerged back into the central cave where the Company had first laid eyes on the Elven-realm, its high, curved dome now darkened in the night. There were lanterns hanging from branches here and there, and hints of bioluminescence in the water below. It was a different kind of beauty, but Hannelís admired it all the same.

The Elven-queen must have noticed her appreciation. “Is it very unlike your home?”

“No,” said Hannelís, glancing sideways at the queen, who watched her with a keen and curious eye. She looked back at the carved columns and twisting vines, the vaulted ceiling with chiseled rifts to let the sun in, if it were still day. “No, it’s similar, actually. The structure of the caves themselves, the way they branch into one another--it’s very like Ered Luin.” _Like home,_ she almost said, though Thorin would scold her for saying it. Erebor was home, not the Blue Mountains. “It’s the trees that are really a wonder. The flowers, the plants, it’s--it makes it feel like a living world of its own, instead of a cave.”

When Hannelís met her gaze again, Galadhrían smiled, pleased with her appraisal. “I demanded it. When the king and I were wed, I missed home. Where I am from, we live among the trees, with fresh air and the sky above us, our dwellings built into the heights. I wanted to bring part of home with me.” They passed a low branch with flowers blooming. The Elf-queen reached out to touch a bud, still closed, not quite ready to open. “I needed the living earth to be happy, not just dull, dark rocks. Thranduil was only too willing to make my wish a reality.”

 _Caves aren’t dull._ And darkness was easily solved, with torches and cut gems and a little creativity. In Ered Luin, the tunnels were lined with lights of every color, the fire peaking through thin panes of garnet and emerald and citrine. Hannelís had witnessed how beautiful mountain-halls could be when realized to their full extent. She was about to say so--but then Galadhrían came to a sudden stop, taking the arm of a passing Elf.

It took Hannelís a moment to remember his name, but then it came to her. “Legolas,” said Galadhrían, in much the same stern voice she used with Thranduil, “don’t be rude. You should greet our guest. This is Hannelís.” Softening, she turned to Hannelís. “This is my son, Legolas.”

The silver-haired Elf stared at his mother for a weighty moment before he sighed and relented. He faced Hannelís and bowed stiffly, his face blank. “It is an honor, Hannelís. I hope you will feel at home here.”

She put just as much enthusiasm into her greeting as he did--which was to say, none at all. “Thank you. I hope I won’t be here long enough for it to feel like home.”

His smile was there and then it wasn’t, the movement so fast Hannelís could not be sure it had ever happened. Once more, his face was unreadable. He inclined his head again, less stiffly this time, before kissing his mother’s hand and bidding them both farewell. As he walked away, Galadhrían said, “Forgive my son; he is usually more gracious.”

“Toward Dwarves?” Hannelís smiled immediately to diffuse any tension from her words. She was rewarded with another peal of bell-like laughter from the Elven-queen. Galadhrían was kind, that much seemed obvious. Hannelís wondered how far her kindness would go. “Your Grace…may I see my father?”

Galadhrían’s smile fell, and Hannelís hastened to clarify: “Just for a moment. I only want him to know I’m safe. Please, it would mean so much to me--and him.”

The smile came back, but this time it was tinged with regret. Hannelís’ heart dipped in her chest. She knew the Elven-queen’s answer before she gave it. “That is for the king to decide, I am afraid. For now, my dear, you should rest.”

And so they passed through the tunnels until at last, Galadhrían stopped before a door with floral designs carved into the wood. Hannelís’ heart sank further when she saw the guard posted outside of it. The apology in Galadhrían’s voice did not match her words: “You will find all you need to be comfortable here. If there is anything else we can do, please do not hesitate in making it known. Sleep well, Hannelís.” The queen had the grace to feel badly about escorting her to her prison cell, at least.

The lock seemed to echo when it clicked behind her. Hannelís gazed about the chamber. On the opposite wall, a fire crackled, its flames illuminating the room. There was a wide bed with thick pillows and soft, warm blankets that felt like satin on her skin. Beside the fire was a green velvet chaise atop a plush woven rug. And nearby was a desk and chair, with a mirror on the wall above it and covered with even more food and wine and water. There was even a doll leaning sideways on the chair, as though whoever had prepared this room for her had placed it there as an afterthought, haphazardly. _Do Dwarf-children like dolls?_ she imagined them thinking. She had half a mind to toss the doll in the fire.

Instead, Hannelís undressed. There was a shift on the bed, a simple white gown that was plainly meant for sleeping. She kicked off her boots and peeled off her leather traveling-clothes before removing her tunic and trousers. She pulled on the gown and slipped under the covers, but after so many weeks of sleeping on the ground or on a hard floor, the mattress was too soft, no matter how much she tossed and turned and kicked at the bed.

In the end, she gathered the blankets around her and took to the rug. That was better. The sound of the dying fire rocked her to sleep, where she dreamed there were no Elves and no dark forests, and Dís was baking her favorite sweet honey-cake for Durin’s Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand we're still not out of Mirkwood. I definitely intended for the Company to be barreling (ha) out of the Elven-king's halls by now, but--next chapter, for sure. Again, this chapter and Galadhrían's character are both dedicated to Ellie (ohelrond) who is generally awesome and also loves Elves, even though, like…why would you like Elves, when Dwarves are RIGHT THERE?
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!


	5. The Captain of the Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas and Thranduil are anti-Dwarf racists. Also, the Company escapes in barrels, leaving Hannelís behind.

Thranduil did not let her see her father. “I think it unwise,” were the precise words he used, as though he suspected the two Dwarves would scheme and launch a master plot if left alone together for more than a moment. Hannelís said she would be content speaking to her father while supervised, to no avail; the Elven-king was unwilling to entertain her requests further. His interrogations continued under the watchful eye of Galadhrían, who was determined to make Hannelís’ stay in their home as pleasant and painless as possible. The Elven-queen tempered her husband, keeping his harsher impulses in check. And so her imprisonment _was_ painless, even if it was by its very nature decidedly _un_ pleasant.

The days ticked by, carrying them ever closer to Durin’s Day. Time was cruel that way. It cared not whether the Company was standing at the mountain-door, the stone eyes of old kings bearing witness to their long-awaited victory, or wasting away in the underground cells of a bitter Elven-king. Time continued regardless. Hannelís hated that.

Still, as time went on, the Elves gave her progressively more freedom. They were kind, even if they hated Dwarves, and even when it was not necessarily wise. Eventually, Hannelís could walk unaccompanied through the caves. Of course, having no guard with her did not prevent her from _feeling_ guarded, because wherever she went, the Wood-elves stared at her--their strange, young Dwarf-prisoner who might also be a princess, but they couldn’t be sure if Thranduil was joking when he said that. Under this sort of communal guard-but-not, Hannelís could go anywhere except the cells, which had its own permanent, rotating guard. Sometimes it was Tauriel who stood sentry.

Even compared to the others, Tauriel was kind. The first time Hannelís walked past her standing at the top of the long stairway that led down to where the Company was being kept, Tauriel smiled. Hannelís took that as a good sign. The second time she walked past, Hannelís said hello.

Tauriel’s answering grin was bright. “Hello, Hannelís,” she said, dipping her head in greeting.

Hannelís hovered there, uncertain of how best to proceed. “I was wondering…” Her eyes drifted down the stairs. She had made a point to give them a wide berth up until this moment, to be a well-behaved prisoner, but speaking to Tauriel, she was now nearer than ever. She could almost see the first cell at the bottom. Without thinking, she stood on her toes and craned her neck to get a better look; the moment she realized what she’d done, she rocked back on her heels.

She had gotten her message across. “They are well,” assured Tauriel. “We are treating them with compassion. They have blankets, and plenty of food and water. You need not worry about them.”

 _Treating prisoners with compassion._ The idea was laughable to Hannelís. The act of imprisonment was itself uncompassionate, particularly when there was no end to that imprisonment in sight. Still, it was a small comfort to know they were not cold or starving. “Does my father know I’m safe?”

“He does.” Her smile softened now, into something closer to tenderness. “I have told him and your cousins that you are being well-treated.”

Hannelís frowned. “My cousins?” She was about to ask how Tauriel knew which Dwarves were her cousins, but the red-haired Elf was already answering.

“Kíli overhead me speaking with your father, and when I passed by, he asked after you. Fíli is in the cell beside him. They were relieved to hear of your safety.” Her grin widened as she recalled, “He showed me his talisman. Kíli. His mother must love him very much.”

 _Innikh dê. Return to me._ That was what the green stone said, a smooth dent rubbed into the non-rune side by Kíli’s thumb. Given enough time, he’d surely run it through. He fiddled with it when he thought of home--and he thought of home often, even if his _home_ was not the home Thorin wanted it to be. For Fíli and Kíli and Hannelís, Erebor was a past and future hope, but it was more dream than reality. Hannelís did not think it would feel real until she saw the Lonely Mountain for herself. She wondered if it would be everything her father had always built it up to be in her head. She wondered if it would ever really feel like home.

Yes, Dís loved Kíli very much. She loved them all fiercely, but Kíli was her baby, the longed-for second child who would give Fíli a brother and complete their little family. A mining accident had taken her husband just before Kíli was born. Thorin spoke of it sometimes, the joy of Kíli’s birth, mingled with the pain of his passing and the grief that the two would never meet. He loved Víli like a second brother, and even more dearly after Frerin died.

“She does,” said Hannelís. “She wanted him to stay, but she knew it was his duty to go.” Duty, or destiny. Hannelís was not sure which was true. She sighed, missing her aunt. “She will be overjoyed to see him again.”

Tauriel was no longer smiling. She gazed at Hannelís, her brow pulling together. “Duty? To what end?”

Hannelís realized her error too late. She had not uttered a word of the quest or of Erebor, but _duty_ was too strong a word. “You should tell the king what you know,” pressed Tauriel, stepping toward her. “He is reasonable, and he has no interest in worldly affairs. He harbors no desire to keep your people imprisoned here forever. He would rather you leave his realm. He need only know you are no threat to him.”

Perhaps she wasn’t kinder than the other Elves. _They are all the same._ They would use their smiles and sweet words as a mask, until they saw the chance to get what they wanted. Hannelís felt stupid for putting even the tiniest bit of trust in her. “We _are_ no threat to you, and we’ve _said_ so,” she said, retreating. The moment she moved away, Tauriel stilled. “If he doesn’t want to keep us here, then he should let us _go._ Tell him that, if you wish.”

Tauriel called her name, but Hannelís did not turn. As she went, she passed Legolas, who loudly asked in Sindarin, _What’s wrong with the Dwarf? Why is it so angry?_ She could have screamed. Instead, she stalked back to her chamber and slammed the door so hard it shook in its frame. Then she picked up the stupid doll and whacked it repeatedly on the bedpost, before throwing it across the room into the opposite wall. That helped a bit, at least.

She stayed there for a long time, pacing back and forth, sitting upside-down on the chaise, pummeling her pillows and pretending they were Legolas and Thranduil and Tauriel and maybe even Galadhrían, too. She never wanted to see any of their faces ever again--but all too soon, her stomach was growling, and her chamber’s supply of fruit and other treats had long since been depleted. She picked up the stupid, tiny clock on the stupid mantle over the stupid fire. The numbers were scrawled so small, Hannelís could barely tell the time. _Stupid Elves._ Regardless, it was almost dinnertime, and she _was_ very hungry. She could eat and simply not _look_ at anyone. That seemed like a fair plan.

She opened the door--and there was Thranduil, scowling down at her. _Oh, fuck._ Had Tauriel actually relayed her message? The words alone weren’t terrible, but if Tauriel had conveyed her _tone…_ “May I help you, your Grace?”

The Elven-king radiated pure fury. “Come with me.”

And so she skulked after him, holding her breath. They passed through one tunnel and then the next, until at last they entered a room she had not yet seen. Already, there were three figures waiting inside: Tauriel, Legolas, and a bound Orc.

“Stand there,” said Thranduil sharply, gesturing beside Tauriel. Hannelís obeyed silently, tossing a sideways glance in Tauriel’s direction. The red-haired Elf did not look at her; she stood at attention before her king, awaiting his command. He cast his gaze at her. “This was the only survivor.”

“The only prisoner,” corrected Tauriel, much to Thranduil’s displeasure. “The rest of his party got away.”

The Elven-king gave Hannelís a truly fearsome glare, as if the Orcs escaping was _her_ fault. She was hopelessly lost--what she had to do with any of these Orcs at all, she had no idea. Then Thranduil turned his ire on the Orc. “Legolas,” he said, and his son stepped forward, unsheathing his sword and holding it to the Orc’s neck.

He began the interrogation: “You were tracking thirteen Dwarves down the river. Why?”

A shock ran through Hannelís. The Company was gone. They had escaped, somehow. And they were pursued. She felt happy, and relieved--and horrified for them, not knowing their fate. And it hurt, too. _They left me._ They may have had no choice, yes, but the result was the same. Her father had left her behind.

“Not thirteen,” said the Orc, “not anymore.”

 _No._ Hannelís felt frozen. Instinctively, she felt her feet walk back, her whole body rejecting his implication. No, not even an implication. He spoke with such _certainty._

Her movement caught his attention. He fixed his eyes on her, his lips pulling back into an ugly, triumphant snarl. “The young one.” He licked his lips, relishing the words. “The black-haired archer. We stuck him with a poisonous arrow. If he isn’t dead yet, he will be soon.”

 _No._ “Kíli.” The name escaped her before she could hold it back. The Orc laughed. Tears blurred her vision, but they did not fall. _Kíli. No, no, no._

“Silence!” came Thranduil’s sharp response.

Beside her, Tauriel was visibly shaken, but her face quickly hardened in disgust. “Answer the question, filth.”

“I do not take orders from dogs,” the Orc returned with equal venom. In answer, Tauriel loosed her blade.

“Tauriel,” said Legolas, as if to stay her hand.

Tauriel advanced on the Orc, spitting the words: “Do you like killing things? You like death? Then I will give it to you!”

 _Kill him. Tear his heart out._ The thought was like a prayer. Hannelís leaned forward, her heart pounding in her chest, and what she wanted more than anything was to see it, the moment the light left his eyes. _Kill him, and may his memory be erased for what he has done._

Tauriel raised her sword high, but before she could strike the Orc, the Elven-king’s order came down: “Tauriel! Enough. Leave, now.”

 _No._ Hannelís watched as Tauriel lowered her blade. The rage flew through her then, and Hannelís bounded forward and tried to wrench the sword from her hands. She could feel the tears on her cheeks, but she did not care. If Tauriel would not kill the Orc, then she would.

Tauriel’s hand was gentle but firm; in a flash, Tauriel’s blade was sheathed and Hannelís was subdued, the Elf’s arms tight around her shoulders. Hannelís fought against the hold, glaring at the Elven-king as he approached. “You have to kill him!” she shouted, kicking at the air. “He doesn’t deserve to breathe, you have to--you have to kill him, or let me do it myself, you _must_ \--”

“I _must_ not do anything.” Thranduil’s voice was cold. Behind him, the Orc grinned horribly. “Do not forget where you are, _Dwarf,_ or to whom you speak.” She let out a desperate scream of fury and grief, but he was done with her. He waved to Tauriel. “Go. Get her out of my sight.”

Tauriel obeyed, though Hannelís kicked and wept all the way. Her cries echoed throughout the caves, making their way back to her as warped, broken shadows of themselves. She imagined the whole of Mirkwood could hear her. She hoped they did. She hoped her cries echoed forever. They should all be made to bear witness to her pain.

Eventually, the grief began to give way to fatigue, as grief so often did. It was then that Tauriel spoke: “Hannelís.” She set her down, gently, and knelt in front of her, looking all around before she spoke. She took Hannelís’ hands in hers. “I am going after them. Kíli…” She released one hand to wipe away the tears as Hannelís’ face crumped anew. “Shh, shh, listen. He may yet be alive. If we find him in time, together, I may be able to save him. I can heal him.”

Hannelís stared at her, unbelieving. “Together?” Tauriel was loyal to Thranduil. Surely the Elven-king was wrathful to lose so many of his prisoners. To lose them _all,_ with the aid of his own Captain…the Elf was taking on great personal risk. Hannelís could not understand why.

“Together,” she repeated, squeezing her hand. She looked Hannelís up and down, and sighed. “But first,” she said, standing once more, “we must get you a sword.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tauriel is a Dwarf ally and Hannelís is an LGBTQ ally, so they're fated to be friends.


	6. Flight to Lake-town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tauriel and Legolas share an ethical debate. Hannelís sees Erebor for the first time.

It did not take long for Tauriel to find the Orcs’ trail. They had clung to the river in their pursuit of Thorin’s Company, and did not deviate therefrom even after the Dwarves’ path vanished. Tauriel and Hannelís found the barrels on the bank, just before the river flowed into the Long Lake. Tauriel could find no more hint of the Dwarves on land, even as the Orcs’ trail followed the shore. “They will be in Lake-town,” she said, her hand still pressed against the sand.

“How do you know?” asked Hannelís. She was not looking at Tauriel. She couldn’t move her eyes from the barrels, riddled with arrows and hacked by swords. Try as she might, she could not stop imagining Kíli hurt, fading, frightened and bleeding out. But there was no blood that they could see, which made her feel there was, maybe, yet hope for her cousin.

“Their only possible path is the lake,” the Elf said. She stood and gestured to the ground, where there was ample of evidence of the Orc party, but none of the Company. Hannelís would have to take her word for it; she knew nothing of tracking. “They could not swim and survive, given the ice--and if they _had_ tried to cross the lake unaided, why abandon the barrels? Surely, they found a boatsman. Which means they are with the Men of Lake-town.”

“That’s good. Isn’t it?” She leaned into the hope, willing it to be true. “They’re good, aren’t they? They’ll help them. They could save Kíli.”

Tauriel looked at her, and Hannelís knew it was not that simple. “We know not what poison afflicts him. They may have the skill to help, yes--but these Orcs move with a purpose. They serve a secret master. I fear any poison they use will be darker and more powerful than these Men can heal.” She saw the fear returning to Hannelís’ eyes, the shadow of a future grief. “It _is_ good,” continued Tauriel. “We know where they are now. We will find them, Hannelís.”

Hannelís made herself believe her. She nodded, trying her best to feel encouraged. “Let’s find them, then.”

A heavy mist sat over the Long Lake, obscuring Lake-town and whatever lay beyond. Hannelís knew Erebor must be near, from her father’s stories of the Dwarves’ dealings with the Men of Lake-town and Dale, but it was hidden from their view. Already, Tauriel and Hannelís had traveled through the night. They rested only when Hannelís was dead on her feet, and only because Tauriel insisted. Hannelís had slept fitfully for an hour, maybe more, before she awoke with the thought of Kíli heavy on her heart, and they had carried on.

It was close to midday when Tauriel slowed to a halt, holding out an arm to stop Hannelís. There was no time to ask why; Tauriel stood still for just a moment, and then her bow was in hand and she spun in place, an arrow at the ready.

_Orcs._ Hannelís unsheathed her blade and turned, bracing for a fight.

It was Legolas. Tauriel straightened and returned the arrow to its quiver in one fluid movement. “Tauriel,” the Elf-prince said, ignoring Hannelís, “you have defied the king’s orders and betrayed his trust. He is furious. You must return at once.”

Tauriel feigned ignorance. “What orders have I defied?”

Legolas scowled, and only now did he jab his finger in Hannelís’ direction, though he still would not look directly at her. “You have freed his prisoner and abandoned him in a moment of crisis. Is that not defiance enough?”

“The king commanded me to remove her from his presence,” she said evenly. “I have done that.” Now her voice took on heat, and she advanced toward Legolas, eyes flashing. “And I have abandoned nothing. It is the king, _your_ father, who has abandoned his duty to his realm and the world beyond. You think these Orcs passing through our lands is a coincidence? For years, Thranduil has shut his eyes and allowed evil to fester on his doorstep. Now, he is reaping his reward. He would seal our gates and sit back as the tides of darkness rise outside our walls, until it has drowned out every bit of light that is left, rather than lift one _finger_ to help those different from him.”

Tauriel’s voice rang in Hannelís’ ears. Her words seemed to have had a similar effect on Legolas. The Elf-prince stared at her, unbelieving, his features a mix of anger and shock and betrayal. Yet as the silence stretched on, his face softened into something closer to sorrow, and he closed his eyes, breathing deep. At last, he looked at Tauriel and spoke in Sindarin, but a whisper on the air: _Come home. Come with me. Please. He will forgive you._

Tauriel sighed, as if she wished she could give him another answer. “If I go back, I will not forgive myself.”

Legolas stepped toward her, beseeching. “Tauriel. It is not our fight.”

“It _is_ our fight.” A hint of the fire returned to her voice, though it was mingled with grief now, too, and a desperate plea for him to understand. “We are a part of this world. If we see evil and do nothing to stop it, what does that say of us? _Mellon,_ ” she continued, using the Sindarin word for _friend,_ “the Orcs make for Lake-town. They will not stop until they have killed the Dwarves. How many innocents will they slaughter before then? How many lives will be lost, because we were unwilling to stop them?”

Pain crossed Legolas’ face then as he imagined it, the untold cost of their inaction. Hannelís gazed at Tauriel in admiration, overwhelmed by a sense of respect and gratitude. After what felt like an eternity, Legolas took another deep breath and set his eyes on the northern horizon. “Then let us hunt, Captain.”

They set off at a run, hurrying to make up for the lost time. For a while, they alternated between walking and running, slowing whenever Hannelís began to tire. The Elves, of course, showed no such fatigue--a fact that irked Hannelís as she bent over herself for the seventh time, hands on her knees, puffing hard. As her breathing evened out, she stood and leaned left and right, rubbing her ribs to work out a stitch in her side. “Here.” Tauriel uncorked her water-skin and offered it to her.

Hannelís took it and drank, and as she handed it back, her gaze drifted over the lake. The sun had burned much of the fog away, enough that she could see the beginnings of a settlement upon the water. _Lake-town._ They were not far now. Sunlight peaked through the clouds, illuminating a vast shape beyond the Long Lake. It was like a bolt of lightning hit here then, jolting her heart and rooting her to the spot. _The Lonely Mountain._

Erebor stared back at her, an enormous, snow-capped wonder. Its lower heights were still masked in a thick veil of fog, but its peak shone like a brilliant, clear, white opal. High above, wisps of cloud gathered, facing the mountain from every direction, as if every path had led them here. As if it called to them, to all the world. Hannelís felt it calling to her, too.

Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to see all of it, to witness its glory. It was immense and jagged and harsh, and beautiful. It was a revelation. Hannelís could almost believe she had never truly seen a mountain before. _And it is ours._ A deep emotion took her, and she heard herself whispering the words before she had even thought to say them: “Baruch atah Mahal ha-Napach, Valareinu, oseh ma’aseh vereishit.”

It was a bracha, a prayer, that she had only heard her father utter a handful of times in her life. _Blessed are you Mahal the Smith, our Vala, who forms the works of creation._ It was recited upon witnessing a wonder of the natural world. Not something the Dwarves made by their own hands, nor by anyone else’s. Only the Smith could forge something this beautiful, and so it was Smith they thanked. Hannelís had never spoken the bracha before now.

“What’s wrong, Hannelís?” Tauriel sounded concerned. Then: “What did you say?”

There were tears on her cheeks. Hannelís wiped them away, smiling. “Nothing. A blessing.” She looked back at the Lonely Mountain, and her stomach fluttered in excitement. The snow was gradually turning orange from the setting sun. She imagined that soon, it would be dappled in golds and pinks and purples, until it was finally painted blue by the dusk. Almost at once, the excitement was replaced by fear. _Dusk._ “It’s Durin’s Day.”

“What?” She could hear the annoyance in Legolas’ voice. “What is she talking about?”

The last light of Durin’s Day was almost upon them. Hannelís could only hope the Company was there already, waiting at the secret door, perhaps already inside. If not, then everything--the quest, these long months, their imprisonment, their _escape_ \--had all been for naught. She prayed her father was at Erebor’s feet, key in hand. Praying was all she could do now.

Pray, and find Kíli. She turned to Tauriel. “What is the fastest way to the mountain?”

“The mountain?” Tauriel exchanged a glance with Legolas, who seemed impatient to move on. “Your friends are in Lake-town--”

“They needed to reach Erebor today. _Now._ Kíli will be with them, my father wouldn’t leave him behind.” She shifted her sword on her hip and started forward again, casting her question over her shoulder at Tauriel: “How easily can we get a boat in Lake-town?”

“She wants us to buy her a boat now,” scoffed Legolas. A look from Tauriel quieted him.

“Hannelís,” said Tauriel, in a clear attempt to temper her urgency, “let us reach Lake-town first. We still have the Orcs to contend with. Once we are certain the people are safe, we will find a way to your friends, I promise you.”

Hannelís wanted to say _no,_ the Company mattered more. Her _family_ mattered more. But she forced herself to remember Tauriel’s words to Legolas. Part of her did not care how many innocent lives were lost, so long as those who mattered most to _her_ survived. But she could imagine the devastation the Orcs could bring in their search for the Dwarves. In her mind’s eye, she saw them dragging children from their beds and butchering them in the street, ripping babes from the breast as their mothers wailed. A city on fire, flames reflecting in the water below. She shut her eyes, banishing the thoughts. Tauriel was right. If they did nothing, Hannelís would not forgive herself, either.

Without looking back, she nodded. Together, they took off down the lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regretfully, Hannelís must admit: Tauriel is probably right, morally-speaking. What do we owe to each other? Everything!!!
> 
> Also, you may have noticed I'm being vague about Kíli's injury and haven't called it a Morgul injury, and you're correct! We only ever hear of the Nazgul (specifically the Witch-king) having a Morgul-anything, so I'm camp "a random Orc isn't going to be running around shooting Dwarves with Morgul-arrows." Desolation of Smaug basically just lifted that plot line directly from Fellowship of the Ring, and I'm not having it! Elrond's, like, the greatest healer in Middle-earth, and even he couldn't fully heal Frodo! So Tauriel will still heal Kíli, and it's still a bad poison, it's just not, like…directly contradicting canon. :)


	7. Of Love and Dragon-fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kíli catches feelings and Smaug arrives in Lake-town.

Hannelís leaned her head on Fíli’s shoulder as they both watched Kíli sleep. Even now, after Tauriel had done her Elf-magic, or healing, or whatever it was…he looked frail and worn. His brow still beaded with sweat, and he tossed to and fro on the bed, as if he were haunted by his dreams. “How bad was it, Fee?”

Fíli wrapped his arm around her, hugging her tight. She could feel the still-present fear in the gesture, the worry he had yet to let go of, despite Tauriel promising the danger was past. “I’ve never seen him so sick. He could barely walk near the end. He was so pale…” He took a shuddering breath. “I thought we would lose him.”

“And he left him,” she said, the words pricking at her, “knowing the risk?”

Fíli drew back and looked at her, his brow knit together. At first, she thought he would deny it, but he seemed to change his mind. Finally, he sighed. “Thorin…” He shook his head. “I do not think he let himself see how sick Kíli was. He wanted me to go with him, even after he’d told Kíli to stay behind. He wanted us all to leave him here, alone, with strangers. I cannot believe he would do that if he knew how dire it had become.”

“We were out of time. He needed to reach the door.” _He left me,_ she wanted to say. He left his daughter, and so why not leave his sister-son, too? Perhaps the quest was more important, in the end. No, that was an uncharitable thought. The Kingdom under the Mountain only mattered if Thorin had someone to hand it to, a generation to inherit and inhabit it, to rebuild and sustain it. But perhaps, in the moment, his desperation to see Erebor reclaimed had won out over all else.

The wind whistled through the hole in the roof. Hannelís pulled the blanket up to Kíli’s chin, so he would not be cold. The hole was a relic of the Orcs’ invasion, when they had forced their way into this small home in their pursuit of Thorin’s Company. By the time they had tracked the Dwarves here, only four were left: Fíli and Kíli, of course, but also Óin and Bofur. The home belonged the Bard, the bargeman who had ferried the Company to Lake-town.

Hannelís had yet to meet Bard, whom Fíli described as quiet and serious, and hospitable despite his suspicions of the Dwarves. But she _had_ met his children: Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda. Now, in the wake of the attack, Tilda would not let go of Sigrid. The two girls sat huddled together on a bench by the table, Sigrid comforting her little sister and humming a soft lullaby. Bain, the brother, kept moving from window to window, and from the windows to the door, as though he couldn’t shake the fear that more Orcs were on their way.

Thankfully, blessedly, no one had been harmed. Legolas and Tauriel had arrived in time. Hannelís wished she could say she had been of more use, but the Elves had rather hogged the kills. As it was, she felt guilty watching the children, regretting that her people’s quest had brought such danger upon them.

“We will join him, once Kíli is well,” said Fíli, his eyes drifting back to his brother. He sighed, and he smiled, imagining it. “What do you think it will be like, Lís? I think it must be something far greater than any Dwarven-hall in Ered Luin, like a…a second Khazad-dûm. I wish I could see Thorin’s face when he first enters the mountain.”

Hannelís glanced sideways at Tauriel, who was perched on the windowsill, gazing out at the city beyond. Legolas had gone after the Orc-captain, and she looked for his return. Tauriel gave no hint of listening, but Hannelís was certain she heard every word. If the Elf had not guessed the Dwarves’ goal when Hannelís demanded to go straight to Erebor, surely she knew it now. No matter. Thranduil could not reach them here. Not imminently, at least.

“I didn’t know what to expect when I saw it,” said Hannelís, picturing the Lonely Mountain in her mind’s eye. “I thought…I don’t know, I thought it would be…just any other mountain. But it wasn’t. It was like I recognized it, almost. Or like _it_ recognized _me._ Is that mad?”

“No,” he said with a laugh. His look was one of remembered wonder. “No, I know what you mean. When it first appeared over the lake…it felt like it was a part of me.” He paused. “Do you want to know what Thorin did then?”

Hannelís perked up and looked at her cousin, smiling. That was all the answer he needed. “He stood on the barge, and I swear, Lís, it was like he’d seen a ghost, or…no. Like he saw the dead come back to life. He wept with joy, and…” He chuckled at the memory. “He shook Bilbo awake so he could see it, too, before he even woke up _Kíli._ That was who he wanted to share it with first. He pulled him to his feet and kissed him. You can imagine our faces then.”

“No!” she cried, and together they roared with laughter. “I can’t believe it. It took him long enough.”

“That’s what Balin said. Poor Bilbo, he blushed red as an apple.” Fíli mimicked the Hobbit’s wide-eyed, bashful look. “Makes you wonder what Thorin will do now they’re actually _inside_ the mountain.”

Hannelís pulled a face and shoved her cousin. “ _Gross,_ I don’t want to wonder that!”

Fíli roared with laughter then, so loudly Kíli stirred in his sleep. As he quieted, another thought rose in Hannelís’ mind, less sweet and more sinister. “But what of Smaug, Fíli?”

That sobered him, too. He considered her question, a shadow passing over his face like a dragon’s wings might block out the sun. Before he could give her an answer, Kíli spoke, just one word, mumbled and barely there: “Tauriel.”

At once, Tauriel was standing, moving toward the dark-haired Dwarf to see if he needed care. But as she drew near, she saw he was yet asleep. She stilled then. As they all looked on, Kíli said it again, even softer this time. _Tauriel._ Hannelís turned back to the Elf, who had gone motionless, her lips pressed tight, troubled. She was not alone in that feeling.

When Hannelís met Fíli’s eyes, she saw the worry there. He knew Kíli as well as he knew himself. He heard the emotion behind his voice, clear even in sleep. Even Hannelís could not deny it, the affection and longing. Without needing to speak, they both agreed to take it to their graves, this secret. They could only hope Kíli had the sense to keep whatever desire he felt for Tauriel secret, too. Woe to him if Thorin ever discovered his nephew cared for an Elf.

Just then, an immense blast sounded far in the distance. At the table, Tilda screamed and clutched Sigrid tighter. Bain rushed to the door and flung it open, Tauriel only a step behind. A moment passed, and then the whole house shook, so violently Hannelís wondered if its flimsy foundation upon the lake would break, sending them plummeting into the icy water below. Kíli awoke with a start, and Óin and Bofur both leapt to their feet.

“What was that?” said Óin, holding his crumpled hearing-horn to his ear.

“The mountain,” breathed Bain, his face white in the moonlight.

“The dragon,” said Tauriel. Tilda gave a great sob, but before anyone else could respond, Tauriel said: “Come. We must leave, _now._ ”

When Bard’s children only looked at her in horror, Tauriel crossed to the table and scooped Tilda into her arms like she was no lighter than a babe. Already, Fíli was helping Kíli off the table. When his injured leg touched the floor, he grimaced in pain--but Mahal be blessed, he could walk, and that was enough. Óin and Bofur shepherded Sigrid and Bain out the door after Tauriel, Hannelís and her cousins close behind.

The narrow streets were clogged with the panicked. It was chaos. Everyone was screaming and pushing past one another, half of them making for the bridge that anchored Lake-town to land, the rest fighting over the boats docked in the canals. Somehow, the group stayed together. Whenever Hannelís thought the Dwarves had lost the others, she would search the crowd and find Tauriel’s red hair high above the rest. _Bless Elves for being tall,_ she thought desperately.

The farther into Lake-town they went, the more the crowd thinned out--for who in their right mind would run _toward_ the fire-breathing dragon? But that meant there were boats in the canals here, forgotten in the tumult. Tauriel made for a barge and pulled the children aboard, the Dwarves still a ways behind. As she urged them on, Hannelís’ hair was blown back by a gust of wind--but she quickly learned it was no natural wind, as she witnessed what happened next.

Fire rained down upon the city. A long, steady stream of flame erupted from the sky, setting the world alight. Suddenly, the abandoned square was blazing, the flames licking at the roofs and spreading down the old, dry wood. The cold, winter air was now scorching, so hot it hurt her lungs. And as the fire transformed the night into a false day, Hannelís saw him: Smaug. The Dragon Dread.

He was red and gold and terrible, a demon colossal, dredged from the deepest pits of the earth. He seemed to pass overhead for an eternity, his body stretching endlessly on, until he opened his jaws and unleashed another wave of fire and devastation upon the city. That broke the Dwarves out of their terror.

Tauriel was still shouting their names. The Dwarves piled into the barge, and the Elf pushed off from its moor. They navigated a smoldering river, their eyes stinging from the smoke. More than once, Smaug soared overhead as he remade Lake-town into a searing, deadly waste.

When at last they emerged from the tunnel out of the city, they were only one of a handful of boats that Hannelís could see. They drifted slowly at first, until Bofur unearthed oars in a hidden compartment, and then they spirited themselves away from Lake-town as quickly as their arms could carry them. Eventually, the deafening roar of dragon-fire faded into the distance, and they pulled their oars in, and let themselves float on the Long Lake.

Hannelís looked back, and gasped in horror. The bridge connecting Lake-town to land was gone, ripped apart by the wrath of Smaug. She stared at the inferno, and she wondered how many people she was watching burn alive. Bile rose in her throat at the thought, and she closed her eyes and turned away.

“No,” breathed Fíli. He must be looking at Lake-town, too. But then he spoke again, in a strangled, broken voice: “Thorin. _No._ ”

Dread seized her, and Hannelís twisted around. Her heart plummeted in her chest. _No. No, no, no._

Erebor, too, was burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that moment at the end of Desolation of Smaug when Bilbo collapses on the ground and whispers, "What have we done?" and then it cuts to black and you hold your breath and then you hear "OOohh misty eyyye of the mountaiiin belooow," you know that moment? I felt that in 2013 and I still feel that and I'll always feel that.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed!


	8. Thrór's Inheritance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smaug is dead, and the rest of the Company arrives in Erebor…only to find Thorin changed.

The city was still smoking in the morning. No, that was not it: the place where Lake-town had once been was still smoking come morning. The buildings had long since collapsed under the heat of the flames, but the water was shallower there, and the half-sunken wreckage continued billowing black smoke long after the last fire had died out. And atop the wreckage lay Smaug, slain upon the bed of his own desolation. He could almost be sleeping, save for the black arrow buried deep in his breast.

The few that had survived gathered on the lakeshore, covered in a blanket of ash. Some had terrible burns. Hannelís watched Tauriel and Óin tend to the wounded, but she saw, too, the anguish in their eyes as they despaired in knowing they could not heal everyone. Many were beyond saving. And besides, it was not as though they had fled the city with the supplies necessary to mend them. There was little they could do, in the end. At last, Óin seemed to accept that, even as Tauriel denied the cruel truth and labored on.

The Dwarves piled back onto the barge and set their sight on the Lonely Mountain. Kíli lingered on the shore, looking for someone--Tauriel, Fíli and Hannelís knew, exchanging a glance. When he found her, they were too far away for Hannelís to hear what he said. But then he was pressing something into her hand. The Elf frowned and shook her head. She tried to give it back, but he insisted. As he bid her farewell and returned to the boat, Tauriel looked…unsettled. Uneasy, or anxious, perhaps. _She does not feel the same._

The land rose slowly from the end of the Long Lake, growing ever higher as it passed through the ruins of Dale and found its way to the mountainside. Their progress was slow, for Kíli’s sake; though his color had returned and he seemed much improved, his leg still pained him. The sun was high above them when they finally beheld the shattered gate of Erebor.

The fire within was long dead, but rocks still smoked here and there. Hannelís could feel their heat as she walked past. The Dwarves halted inside the mountain-gate, just for a moment, as if steeling themselves for what was to come. They did not know what they would find. There were no dead bodies here at the entrance, at least. Hannelís hoped that was a good sign.

The sound of their footfalls echoed throughout the vast, empty halls. _Hollow._ That was what Erebor seemed to Hannelís. It was cold and dead, devoid of light and brilliance, lonely and forsaken. It was nothing like the stories her father had told her. It was an abandoned kingdom of rubble and dust, a barren void left behind in the wake of dragon-fire. It was hollowed, not hallowed. There was nothing holy here.

With every step, her dread grew, because every step was another moment they had not found Thorin. The Company, too, she worried for--but he mattered more. She would be lying to herself if she claimed she would _not_ be relieved if they found even all the others broken and bloody, yet her father alive. She would sell his kingdom, his throne, his crown, if it only meant that he survived.

They found Bilbo. Rather, Bilbo found _them._ He emerged out of a passageway, breathless from running, and skidded to a stop in front of them. As the Dwarves cried out in joy at seeing him, the Hobbit held up his hands, puffing hard. “Wait,” he said. “We need to leave. We must leave.”

Bofur’s smile was confused. “We only just got here.”

Bilbo shook his head, his face contorting in pain. “I’ve tried--I tried talking to him, but he won’t listen.”

Óin stuck his hearing-horn in his ear. “Listen? What do you mean--”

“It’s Thorin!” said Bilbo, louder than he intended. He glanced around anxiously before continuing, his voice low: “Thorin, he’s--changed. He’s been like this for days, he won’t sleep, he barely eats. He’s not himself, not at all.” The Hobbit’s eyes were filling with tears. “It’s…this place, that’s done this. There is a sickness in him--”

“A sickness?” said Kíli, looking to Fíli, who asked at the same time, “What kind of sickness?”

Hannelís knew what her cousins were thinking, because she thought the same. The last real King under the Mountain, her great-grandfather, Thrór…he had gone mad. Thorin had watched it happen. He witnessed how his grandfather’s ambition gave way to greed, and greed to paranoia, and on until Thrór was unrecognizable to him. Thorin’s father, Thráin, had labored to bring Thrór back from the brink, but it was too late. Thrór’s sickness had put him beyond his son’s reach, and Smaug came soon after.

Years later, Thráin had suffered the same madness. The loss of his father’s kingdom weighed heavily on his shoulders, and he babbled endlessly about how the Lonely Mountain might be reclaimed. Rivkís begged him not to leave Ered Luin, but he would not see reason. He journeyed east, with a sparse handful of companions, and vanished somewhere in the south of Mirkwood. Balin had been one of Thráin’s Company. He said they searched for weeks for the lost Dwarf-king, and--nothing. He had disappeared without a trace.

When Thorin’s Company was in Rivendell, there was a night Hannelís was walking with her father on the terrace, when they heard the Elf-lord speaking with Gandalf on the balcony above. He had taken her arm and stopped her, and put a finger to his lips. _Listen._ And they had. Hannelís wished they had kept walking.

Lord Elrond was not pleased with the Dwarves’ quest, that much was clear. Gandalf countered that Erebor was in a strategic location; he wanted it to be held by a force for good, not by a dragon. Besides, he continued, the Dwarves would go forward with their mission with or without his help--and was it not better, and safer, if Gandalf _did_ help? He referred to Erebor as Thorin’s birthright. Her father looked very pleased with the Wizard then. _Oh,_ how Hannelís wished the conversation had stopped there.

 _Have you forgotten?_ The Elf-lord’s words were harsh. _A strain of madness runs deep in that family._ A darkness had passed over her father’s features then, even before his next words, the worst words. _Can you swear Thorin Oakenshield will not also fall?_

A chill had run through Hannelís then, just as it did now. _It can’t be that,_ she thought desperately. _It can’t._ Before Bilbo could answer her cousins, something caught Fíli’s eye, and he began descending the stairs. Bilbo called after him, but Fíli did not answer. There was a golden glow in the distance, Hannelís saw, far below them. She followed Fíli down the stairs, the others just behind her.

They came to a platform, hanging over the treasure below. The scene took her breath away. Gold--mountains of it, sprinkled with gems of every color, of every shape and size. The mountain nearest the platform stretched so high, Hannelís could almost reach down and touch it, if she wanted. She saw a diamond the size of her hand, shining brilliantly in the torchlight. The wealth was overwhelming. In her mind, Hannelís tried to quantify it, to make some sense of the scale, but…she could not wrap her head around the enormity of it. She had not known there was this much gold in all the world.

Her father stepped out of an archway, his eyes gleaming off the braziers. He wore a crown, Hannelís saw at once: Thrór’s crown, it must be. He could not walk without disturbing the treasure; each step sent coins cascading down the slope, so that his movement was accompanied by a quiet, ever-present metallic symphony. “Gold,” he said to himself, as if in a trance. “Gold beyond measure…beyond sorrow and grief.”

His words pricked at her heart. He, too, had no way of calculating the sheer wealth before him, but he tried. He took the things he’d had the most of in his life--sorrow and grief, pain and loss--and weighed them against this, his inheritance. _And it’s still not enough,_ thought Hannelís, her heart breaking for her father. _No amount of gold can outweigh such devastation._

She could not stand by another moment. She broke away from the others and tore down the stairs. Thorin’s head shot up at the sudden sound, and his gaze pierced her, rooting her to the spot. His eyes looked from her, to Fíli and Kíli, to Bilbo. They lingered on the Hobbit before drifting back to his kin.

“Behold, my sister-sons,” he said, before his gaze returned to his daughter, “ _libi_ …the Kingdom under the Mountain.”

 _Libi._ It meant _my heart._ When he said that, Hannelís felt her heart swell in her chest, and she flew down the rest of the stairs and threw herself into his arms. Thorin held her tight against him, kissing the top of her head. From the sound of gold coins tinkling and tumbling down, she knew the others had joined them below. Fíli and Kíli could wait to embrace Thorin, she decided as she clung to her father. In that moment, she did not want to ever let go.

But too soon, Thorin pulled away. He took her face in his hands and pressed his forehead to hers, and planted one more kiss there before releasing her. He stared at her, and pushed a curl out of her eyes, but there was something behind his smile, lurking in his eyes. “How did you escape, _chaim sheli_?”

Hannelís blinked, more than a little thrown. She was _here._ They were _together._ To her, that was the most important thing. Before she could respond, Thorin’s smile was gone. “You gave the Elven filth our secrets. Didn’t you?”

His suspicion stung. Now she hastened to speak, shaking her head. “No, Abba, I--”

“Do not lie to me,” he said, his voice sharp. His eyes bore into her, unrelenting. “They would not release you without exacting their price. Tell me, _now,_ what you revealed. What did you promise them?”

“ _Nothing,_ ” she insisted, but still he did not believe.

He took her by the shoulders, but before he could say anything else, Fíli spoke: “Uncle, it’s true, she told them nothing. The Elves pursued the Orcs who hunted us, and brought her with them. She joined us in Lake-town.”

Thorin glanced at his nephew, but did not release her. He looked back at her. “Is this true?”

She nodded. “Yes, Abba. They didn’t ask for any information, they just--wanted to find the Orcs and help Kíli. He was sick, he needed a healer--”

Kíli was already speaking. “The Elves saved me, Uncle. They got us out of Lake-town, and let us go--”

“Enough with the fucking Elves,” said Thorin, scowling. Hannelís couldn’t tell whether he believed them or not, but it was clear he did not wish to hear more. Perhaps he simply could not bear to hear his child and nephews speak so well of those he hated. He fixed Hannelís in his gaze once more. After a heavy moment, he touched her cheek, and dropped his hands. “Enough. You are here. That is what matters.”

Hannelís tried to smile, but that only made her want to cry. Her father’s harshness frightened her. As Thorin greeted the others, she and Bilbo glanced at each other. The Hobbit looked tense, distressed and grieved, but by the time Thorin reached him, he had plastered a smile on his face, one far more convincing than hers. Thorin pulled him into a deep and hungry kiss, with an air of possession that disturbed her. Seeing the way the others exchanged uneasy glances, she was not alone.

Dread gripped her. Bilbo was right. This was not her father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse me while I'm torn to shreds over Thorin weighing Thrór's treasure against "sorrow and grief" because that's what he's had the most of in his life, so it's the closest possible measurement. So much suffering in one short, bitter man. I love him and I wish Middle-earth had a more robust mental health support system so he could, like, process his trauma instead of just…ruminating over it for decades until he finally leads his people on an ill-conceived quest that gets his entire line killed. It's fine.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! So much more angst to come!


	9. The King's Jewel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin searches in vain for the Arkenstone. Bilbo breaks his heart.

Every year, as Durin’s Day came to a close and the world began another turn around the sun, the Dwarves uttered a special phrase. In the waning moments of the holiday, as the last bit of light fell beneath the horizon, Durin’s Folk would raise their voices and sing: _L’shanah haba’ah bahar haboded. Next year in the Lonely Mountain._

It was a message of hope, of redemption and enduring faithfulness in Mahal. Next year, may they be home. May this be the year of their returning. May they flourish in safety and peace, together, beneath the shadow of their ancestors. Everyone said the words, but some spoke them more fervently than others. Hannelís remembered how her father’s face would glow in the dying candlelight, his brow furrowed as the prayer spilled from his lips over and over, long after the others had fallen silent. Next year in Erebor. Next year, next year, always next year. For a lifetime, he had prayed this.

And now, Durin’s Day had come and went, and it was no longer _next year._ They had returned. Erebor lay at their feet. Hannelís had not often imagined how her father would react, being home after so very long. But when she had imagined it, he was happy. But there was no happiness in him now. There was only hunger.

She saw it in the way he laid claim to Bilbo, pulling the Hobbit into long embraces and calling him _chaim sheli, my life,_ a phrase he had once reserved for Hannelís alone. Bilbo’s hair had grown over the course of their journey, and now Thorin braided it, weaving hoops of gold and silver into his curls with the careful eye of an artist making his vision a reality. He tasked Ori with mending a rich velvet cloak, its fibers the dark blue of Durin, and when Ori was finished, he wrapped it around Bilbo’s shoulders and clasped it tight. When Thorin took officially the title of King under the Mountain, he styled the Hobbit king consort.

And Hannelís saw her father’s hunger, too, in the way he was loath to let her out of his sight, save for when he was off with Bilbo. On those occasions, he entrusted her to Fíli or Kíli, or Balin or Dwalin. It was as though he worried she would be taken from him again, his heir stolen away, if he but closed his eyes for too long. But most of all, Thorin hungered for the Arkenstone.

It was the King’s Jewel, a brilliant, shining, massive crystal depicted in many of Erebor’s reliefs. Wherever Thrór’s likeness was etched into the stone walls, there it lay above his head, or on his brow, designating his Mahal-given right to rule. Sometimes, Thorin stood in the throne room for hours, staring at the indentation in the wall where the Arkenstone had once sat, before Smaug came and destroyed his world. Perhaps if he stared hard enough, it would appear. But it never did. And as the days stretched on without its discovery, Thorin’s paranoia grew.

“I think it best the Arkenstone remain lost.”

Balin uttered the words in a hushed, fearful voice, casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure Thorin was not near. He and Hannelís sat in the old library, sorting through ancient tomes and dusty records. Balin had asserted there may be information about the King’s Jewel somewhere in these mountains of parchment, which was the only reason Thorin had permitted them to abandon the physical search amongst the gold. Even now, as they pored over the faded pages, the rest of the Company dug through the vast treasure, hoping to uncover the Arkenstone and assuage the Dwarf-king’s lust.

Hannelís looked up from the scroll laid out in front of her. “What do you mean? It is the King’s Jewel. It belongs to the king.” There was no sharpness in her voice; she was only repeating what Thorin had said, many times now. Balin was one of his most trusted advisors and closest friends. She did not know why he would say this.

“I understand,” said Balin, nodding, “and if we find it, then the king shall have it. But Hannelís…” He fidgeted with the pages of his book, choosing his words with care. “I remember how Thrór changed after he discovered the Arkenstone. In the blink of an eye, he went from a prudent king, sensible and fair in his dealings with Dale and the Elves, to…something else. He became convinced his neighbors were his enemies, he closed Erebor off to the world, he hoarded wealth and courted disaster, he--”

“Courted disaster?” repeated Hannelís, frowning. “Do you blame _him_ for a _dragon_? How could he have known--”

“We did know,” said Balin. He sighed and ran a hand over his eyes, his face contorting briefly into a grimace. “Smaug spilled the blood of our people, not Thrór, _yes,_ but…you must understand, we knew this sort of thing happened. Dwarf-kingdoms had fallen to dragon-fire before. And I believe Thrór’s…sickness…created the conditions that made a dragon more _likely._ ”

Hannelís tried to make sense of his words. “And…you are saying his sickness came from…the Arkenstone?”

“From his proximity to it, yes. It touched Thráin, too, but I thought it might pass over Thorin. He was so young when Erebor was destroyed, he had not had the time to get close to it, to let it into his heart. But now, just being _near_ it again…” Balin’s voice drifted off, and he stared at her, beseeching. “Tell me you have seen the change in him.”

Of course she had. Balin could see her answer in her eyes. Hannelís believed him. The Arkenstone had been her father’s singular focus since he step foot in the Lonely Mountain. _Well,_ she corrected herself, _the Arkenstone and Bilbo._ “He will never stop searching for it. And if it’s here somewhere…it will never stop affecting him.”

Balin did not know what to say to that. He agreed with her, that much was clear. Her own words haunted her as they continued their fruitless search. Hannelís heard them whenever she saw her father hunting with that gleam in his eye, whenever he spoke to the Company with suspicion, as though the King’s Jewel was already found and they were all of them traitors withholding from him his birthright. _It will never stop affecting him._ So long as the Arkenstone was inside the mountain, she would never have her father back.

There were other problems, beyond the lost crystal and the sickness growing in Thorin’s mind. The Men of Lake-town had come to the mountain-gate seeking recompense. They blamed the Company--rightfully, Hannelís had to admit--for the dragon’s wrath. They had endured a lifetime of horrors overnight, and were now set adrift as refugees, huddling together around small fires within the ruins of Dale. More concerning was the Elven army camped on their doorstep. Thranduil, too, demanded compensation from the Dwarves, for the damage and theft done to his halls during their escape. The fact that he had imprisoned them mattered little to the Elven-king; he wanted payment, regardless.

No one wanted to give the Elves anything, but most of the Company was much more amenable to the Men of Lake-town’s request. All of them, in fact, except Thorin. “They have lost everything, Uncle,” said Fíli, pleading with the Dwarf-king for what felt like the dozenth time. “Can we not help them rebuild their lives?”

“Do not speak to me of what they have lost,” answered Thorin, his eyes dark. He cast an anxious look over the battlements they had hastily built over the battered mountain-gate, to keep Thranduil’s army at bay. “I know loss. Those who have lived through dragon-fire have much to be grateful for.”

“You do not mean that,” said Kíli, backing his brother. “Winter is well on its way. You would leave them to freeze?”

Thorin rounded on him. “And who came to our aid when Smaug made Erebor a desolate waste? Elves? Men?” he challenged, as though the old Men of Dale had not had their own desolation with which to contend. “Why should we help those who abandoned us at our utmost need?”

“Because we have a duty to this land, _uzbad,_ ” said Balin, using the Khuzdul honorific, “as well as all its peoples. What good is the Kingdom under the Mountain if it is built on the bones of those we once called friend?”

“And what good is it, cousin, if we squander the hard-won wealth of our forefathers on those so undeserving?”

 _Undeserving._ Hannelís hated to hear her father speak so callously. “But Abba, you gave them your word.” Fíli had told her as much, as they rowed to Erebor. When he saw her concern for the survivors of Lake-town, he gave her words of comfort: _We will take care of them, Lís. Thorin promised them gold for their aid. We will help them regain_ their _home, too._ “Does that mean nothing?”

Thorin turned to his daughter. “You have a soft heart, _libi,_ ” he said, “but one day, you will understand why _this_ was not a promise worth honoring. What choice was there, but to barter our birthright for blankets and food? To ransom our future in exchange for our freedom? Do you deem that a fair trade, Lís? No. I will not honor such terms.”

Dwalin opened his mouth to argue further, but Thorin held up a hand. “I will hear no more of this.” He made for the passageway that led toward the armory. “Come. Our home was hard-won. Now, we must defend it.”

They outfitted themselves in helms and hauberks of steel. Even now, over a century later, they remained in good working condition, a testament to the skill of the Dwarves. Some of the Company, including Hannelís, favored leather armor, which they had worn since Ered Luin. Still, Hannelís added a layer of mail, along with a pair of bracers when the mail sleeves proved too short. Bilbo had the opposite problem. Every piece of armor was too big for him. At last, Thorin unearthed a silver shirt of thin mail. A hush fell over the Company as he approached the Hobbit.

“This is made of the finest steel, crafted for a young Dwarf-price of old,” said Thorin. “Mithril, we call it. No blade can pierce it.”

“Thorin…” Bilbo shook his head, overwhelmed. “I cannot. I’m not a warrior, I’m a Hobbit. Please, give it to someone else--”

“It is yours, _chaim sheli,_ ” the Dwarf-king insisted. This time, when he held out the gift, the Hobbit accepted it. He pulled it over his head; it fell almost to his knees, but it would suit. Thorin smiled, pleased. “It will protect you, if the battle separates us.”

Bilbo’s face went white. “Battle? Thorin--”

“What battle, _uzbad_?” cried Balin. He had been inspecting a shield, but now he set it down and hurried to Thorin’s side. “You can’t seriously be considering--”

Thorin turned on the white-haired Dwarf, eyes blazing in sudden anger. “You would question your king?”

“No,” Balin assured him, bowing his head, “no, _uzbad,_ I only--”

“We will be ready for them, if they seek to take our treasure by force.” Thorin stormed out of the armory, hurrying back to the battlements. “We will be ready,” the Company heard him repeat as they all scrambled to grab the last of their armor and follow after him. When Hannelís reached the high wall and looked out beside her father, the air rushed out of her.

Thranduil’s army stood at attention, a mass of hundreds facing the Lonely Mountain. At the front of the army sat the Elven-king and Bard the Bowman on their horses. Watching the arrival of the Dwarves, Bard raised his hand in greeting--but Thorin must have misinterpreted the gesture, for he quickly nocked an arrow and let it fly. It pierced the earth just in front of Thranduil’s horse, and it shook there violently, as the Elven-king looked on in hateful disinterest.

Already, Thorin had readied a second arrow. “I will put the next one between your eyes, if you come one step closer.”

“Uncle, _no,_ ” whispered Kíli desperately, but Thorin silenced him with a glance.

Thranduil ignored his threat. “We have come to tell you payment of your debt has been offered,” he said, holding his head so high, he managed to give the impression of looking _down_ on the Dwarves, even as their makeshift gate towered over him and his host, “and _accepted._ ”

“Payment?” growled Thorin, still not unnocking his arrow. “What payment? I have offered you nothing. You have _nothing._ ”

Bard the Bowman reached into his coat and unearthed something in his fist. He raised it above his head and turned it toward them, so they could see the way the light hit it, scattering rainbows across the rocky ground below. Hannelís recognized it instinctively. _The Arkenstone._ “We have this.”

 _How?_ It was _here,_ in the mountain. Beside her, Fíli looked at Bard in betrayal. “Thief! That is the King’s Jewel. You have no right to lay even a finger upon it.”

Bard shrugged, unconcerned by Fíli’s anger. “The king may have it, with our goodwill.” He returned the crystal to his pocket, and all the brilliant rainbows were gone. Hannelís felt something pull at her then, like she could have vaulted over the wall and clawed it from his grasp. She would even spill blood to do it. After a moment, the feeling subsided, but its suddenness frightened her. Bard continued: “But first, he must honor his word.”

“No,” said Thorin, sneering at the Bowman. He looked half-feral, as though he wanted nothing more than to rip out Bard’s throat with his teeth. “You take us for fools. It is a ruse; the Arkenstone is _in this mountain._ It is a trick!”

“It’s not a trick.” The voice came from behind them, soft but firm. It was Bilbo. Slowly, her father turned, gazing at his lover in bewilderment. “The jewel is real. I gave it to them.”

Thorin’s confusion gave way to something deeper, something Hannelís could not yet place. “You?”

Bilbo looked pained, but he made himself answer, anyway. “I…I took it, as my fourteenth share.”

Hannelís shut her eyes. _The contract._ Before they had left the Shire, the Hobbit had signed a contract agreeing to be the Company’s burglar. Each adult member of the Company was to receive a fourteenth of Erebor’s wealth once it was reclaimed. Of course, that meant most of the wealth would stay in the mountain, as all but Bilbo planned to make it their home. Thorin had intended Bilbo’s share to be in gold, Hannelís knew…but the contract had not specified.

She opened her eyes, and saw her father coming to the same conclusion. “Your share…” he murmured, his voice barely audible. He met Bilbo’s gaze briefly, before turning abruptly away and facing the army again. “And will you accept a proportionate payment for the Arkenstone?” he shouted, hating the words even as they spilled out of his mouth. Hannelís could see something building behind his eyes, some grief or betrayal, though he fought to hide it. “One fourteenth share of the treasure, according to the Hobbit’s claim?”

Thranduil and Bard exchanged a long glance, shared words the Dwarves could not hear. The Elven-king’s lips turned up in one of his horrible, disdainful smiles. Bard the Bowman looked back at the Dwarf-king and nodded. “We accept your terms. One fourteenth of the treasure for the Arkenstone.”

Without moving his gaze from the army, Thorin snarled low, “Remove him from my sight.”

“What?” Fíli looked between his uncle and Bilbo, understanding and _not_ at the same time. “Who, Uncle?”

Thorin turned, his eyes bearing into the Hobbit. He stormed toward him, teeth bared. “There, _thief._ Your debt is settled. You have no claim here now.”

Bilbo’s face crumbled, unable to comprehend how things had turned so fast. “Thorin--please understand, I wanted to give it to you. I was going to, so many times, I _swear,_ but--”

The Dwarf-king’s glare was unrelenting. “But what?”

The Hobbit stumbled backward, forced to retreat from Thorin’s advance. “But--you are _changed,_ Thorin. The Dwarf I knew would never go back on his word, would never doubt the loyalty of his kin.”

Thorin shook his head, and Hannelís realized he was holding back tears. “Do not speak to me,” he said, his voice thick, “of _loyalty._ ” Then, with sudden wrath, he gestured to Dwalin. “Throw him from the rampart!”

Tears were flowing down Bilbo’s cheeks now. “ _Thorin,_ ” he pleaded in a broken voice. Dwalin stood beside him, unmoving. None of the Dwarves would carry out Thorin’s order. The Dwarf-king quickly realized that.

“I will do it myself,” he growled, and took hold of Bilbo. He yanked him toward the edge, hoisting him up until he was hanging halfway off of the battlements. If Thorin only let go, the Hobbit would fall to his death.

But Fíli and Kíli were there, joined quickly by the rest of the Company, pulling Bilbo safely out of Thorin’s reach. As they did this, Gandalf emerged from the mass of soldiers, hurrying toward the mountain and shouting in a booming voice: “If you do not like my burglar, then please do not damage him. Return him to me.”

While Dwalin restrained her father, Bofur led Bilbo to the side and threw down a rope. With the help of the others, Bilbo clambered down the high wall. Thorin struggled against Dwalin’s hold, yelling back in answer, “Never again will I have dealings with Wizards, or Shire-rats!” Though he radiated fury, Hannelís saw the tears glistening in his beard.

The Bowman ignored his outburst. “Are we resolved? We will have our payment?”

With Bilbo safe, Dwalin released Thorin. At once, he pushed the tattooed Dwarf away, seething. He would not even look at those waiting for his response below. Instead, Thorin paced along the battlements and gazed out at the horizon, clearly looking for something, though Hannelís could not guess what. _Why is he stalling?_

Bard pressed him: “Give us your answer. Will we have peace, or war?”

A raven flew from beyond the horizon, and a spirit of triumph overtook her father, triumph tinged with hopeful madness. He gazed down at the Bowman, at Gandalf and Bilbo and the Elven-king with his host, and his next words struck terror in Hannelís’ heart: “We will have _war._ ”

A moment later, a vast army appeared over the hill, first one line of soldiers and then many, trickling down into the valley in front of the Lonely Mountain. Even from a distance, Hannelís could see the soldiers were Dwarves, short and broad and bearded. Their helms looked to be made of iron.

Dáin of the Iron Hills was come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when Richard Armitage said in an interview that Thorin becomes "singularly obsessed" with Bilbo in the third Hobbit film? YEAH, we're leaning into that. He's singularly obsessed with the Arkenstone, and with Bilbo by extension, because Bilbo HAS the Arkenstone. I love it…I just [clenches fist] ugh, I just love the pain.
> 
> Anyway, I'm very excited for the next couple of chapters, but I'm not sure how quickly they'll get up. We'll have to see, you know…whether there's mass national unrest this week or whether election-related anxiety renders me unable to write…at least I have therapy scheduled for Thursday! If you're in the U.S. and haven't already voted, please vote tomorrow! Please!!


	10. The Battle of Five Armies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin. It’s battle time, and you know what that means for the Durins.
> 
> Content warning for gore and major character death.

Hannelís could not understand how it had gone so wrong.

No sooner had Dáin Ironfoot arrived from the east than a deafening horn sounded beyond the hill to the north. To the horror of all, a swarm of Orcs and Wargs began streaming into the valley, armed to the teeth and ready for a full assault. Any fight between the Dwarves and the forces of Mirkwood and Lake-town was forgotten; at once, Dáin joined his host with Thranduil’s, and together the armies prepared to meet their common enemy.

“Below!” shouted Thorin, hurrying for the stairs. “Now!”

The Company exchanged looks of concern and followed, not knowing what the mad Dwarf-king had planned. But when Hannelís saw her father clawing at the rocks in the center of the battlements, where a small hole was already visible, she felt a rush of relief. He meant to fight, not run or hide. Together, the Dwarves carved out a stable exit, removing only the rocks which were necessary to reach their iron-helmed kin.

The battle was a blur to Hannelís. She fought near her father and cousins, keenly aware of the way Thorin kept looking back to ensure she was near and unharmed. She saw, too, the moment Thorin spotted the Orc-captain atop Ravenhill, tall and pale and terrible. He recognized him somehow. “Bolg,” she heard him say.

 _Bolg._ She knew the name. He was the son of Azog, the great Orc-leader of old whom Dáin had slain at the Battle of Azanulbizar. The long years had not erased Bolg’s hatred of Durin’s line, and he had sought the Dwarves responsible for his father’s death without ceasing. _Ah,_ thought Hannelís, understanding. So that was why Bolg’s army had come. To put an end to her and her kin, once and for all.

Thorin’s aim was clear: if he could kill Bolg, the Orc-army's leader, perhaps he could secure a quicker, less costly victory. He gathered Hannelís and Fíli and Kíli and Dwalin to him, and together they scaled Ravenhill to make an end of the pale Orc-captain.

But when they reached the top of Ravenhill, Bolg was gone. The steep hill was deserted, the old fortress devoid of Orcs or any living thing, for that matter. And so Thorin had separated them, sent Hannelís with her cousins and went off with Dwalin to cover more ground and solve the mystery of Bolg’s disappearance. In that moment, it seemed a good idea. They could not have been more wrong.

It was a trap. As soon as they entered the system of tunnels beneath Ravenhill, Hannelís and Fíli and Kíli heard them coming. The Orcs had never abandoned it; they had only hidden, to draw the Durins near. Hannelís and Kíli both looked to Fíli, but how could he know what to do? He sent Kíli back the way they came, keeping Hannelís close at his side. But they knew the Orcs were coming.

It had all gone so wrong. That was all Hannelís could think, as she gazed down at her father, at Thorin and Dwalin and Kíli gathered below, summoned here to watch their kin die. Bolg had Fíli in his grasp, the Orc beside him restraining Hannelís. _Is this how it ends?_ With her father helpless, watching? _I am not ready to die._

“This one will die first,” Bolg roared, pushing Fíli toward the edge. “Then the brother. Then this wretched brat.” He swung his blade wide, and Hannelís stifled a sob as the jagged metal came within an inch of her face.

She saw Thorin’s eyes flit between her and Fíli, between two he loved deeply--but not equally. His gaze settled on her, and even at this distance, she could see the fear in her father’s eyes. She had never seen him so afraid.

“Then you, Oakenshield. You will be last,” said Bolg. Thorin would be made to watch the destruction of his line, of all he held dear, before Bolg would permit him to be killed. Hannelís willed her tears not to fall, willed herself to look defiant. She wanted to be brave.

Bolg lifted Fíli with one arm, like the golden-haired son of Durin was a child, and not a Dwarf grown. Hannelís struggled against the arms of the Orc who held her. She kicked her feet down, tried to stamp on his feet--to do _something,_ to get to Fíli somehow--but she was too far off the ground; her legs did not even reach the Orc’s shins. The Orc only laughed and shook her violently.

“No,” said Fíli, sobs wracking his body. He knew his death was near. “ _Go,_ run!” With his final words, he begged Thorin and Kíli to leave, to save themselves, even if he and Hannelís were already lost. And then Bolg’s blade ran him through. He groaned and coughed, blood bubbling from his lips. After a horrible moment, he slumped and went still. One strike, and it was over.

“Here ends your filthy bloodline,” said Bolg, baring his teeth.

He discarded Fíli like he was nothing. Hannelís watched his body fall. The entire world seemed muted for one brief instant, and then she heard a sickening thud echo from below. Thorin shouted Kíli’s name, and then Dwalin shouted Thorin’s. _No._ They weren’t fleeing, she realized. They were running toward their deaths.

Bolg turned to her. She hoped she looked courageous, fearless in the face of such certain doom. He stared back, his eyes like pure ice. Slowly, he lifted his blade, now coated in her cousin’s blood, and ran it down the length of her face.

It felt almost like a caress, so carefully did he trace the curve of her cheek, her jaw--and then he cut a shallow line along her neck, and a second, one across the other. It stung, but it did not bleed heavily. Where the lines met, Bolg set the point of his blade, as if he might end her life right there. His gaze bore into her, asking the question: _Shall I do it now?_

Hannelís did not look away, nor did she cringe. She would not give him the satisfaction. She wondered, though, if he could hear her heart thudding in her chest. _Not yet_ , it said, _not yet, not yet._ Would that be answer enough?

After a long moment, he lowered his sword and his lips curled into a snarl--no, it was a smile, though it looked all wrong to her. No smile should look bloodthirsty. “Bring the Dwarf-whelp,” he said to the Orc holding Hannelís, “so Oakenshield may see me defile her.”

She was hoisted over the Orc’s shoulder and borne through a jeering crowd. She tried to look strong, to banish her fear, though her heart pounded with every step. She focused on the ground, refusing to meet the hungry, glinting eyes of the Orcs who stuck their faces in hers. They spat at her, howled in her ears to frighten her, did all they could to get some reaction from the soon-to-die heir of Durin. Someone pulled her curls tight, and she heard the ring of a blade, and then a lock of her hair was in their fist, a golden battle-trophy.

Gradually, the crowd thinned out as the Orcs went elsewhere, to rejoin the battle below or to hunt down the other Dwarves still on Ravenhill. Thorin, Kíli, Dwalin. Hannelís craned her neck as best she could when the Orc carrying her turned a corner. Behind them, Bolg was gone. They were alone. She looked down again, and saw the Orc’s blade swinging at his belt, entirely unprotected.

Her heart skipped. Her hands were not bound; she could reach it easily, if she was fast enough. But she had to act now, before any other Orcs returned.

She darted her hand down and grabbed the hilt of the blade. The Orc must have felt her sudden movement, for he twisted around, looking for a reason--and then, too soon, he found it. He saw her hand clutching his weapon, or perhaps he heard it clang against his armor. She was having trouble with it; it was meant to be unsheathed from the front, and she could not twist her arm back far enough to get it out.

The Orc threw Hannelís off of his shoulder with a roar, flipping her roughly. Her back hit the ground hard, and all the air went out of her lungs in a rush. Already, the Orc had his blade in hand. Then he was advancing, clearing the distance between them and lifting his sword to strike…

But Dwalin was there. With a single, great swing of his ax, he cut clean through the Orc’s neck. Hannelís felt his blood splatter across her neck, hot and black. She rolled away as the Orc’s body fell toward her, and Dwalin pulled her to her feet. He took her face in his hands, looking her up and down. His fingers brushed the cuts on her neck, and she winced. _He looks so afraid._ “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she said, because it was physically true. Her body was whole, or as good as. But Fíli was dead. And Bolg wanted nothing more than to find Kíli and Thorin and kill them, too. Her stomach twisted anxiously, and she looked around, already searching for her kin.

Perhaps Dwalin could see the fear in her eyes, because he pulled her into an embrace, briefly. She supposed it was meant to feel comforting. Then, too soon, he was pressing the dead Orc’s blade into her hand. “We have to find Thorin,” was all he said.

They made their way across Ravenhill as swiftly as they could, cutting down Orcs wherever they found them. They emerged through an archway just in time to find Bilbo cornered by a host of Orcs led by Bolg. _Bilbo._ The Hobbit had returned to them. _We do not deserve his loyalty._

Dwalin faced the brunt of the fighting; he pushed Hannelís back when she tried to fight alongside him, leaving her to take down the Orcs that managed to slip past him. To his credit, Bilbo knocked out a number of Orcs with well-aimed stones. Once knocked out, Hannelís made short work of them.

At first, Bolg hung back and did not engage any of them, seemingly content to watch Dwalin slaughter his soldiers. Then, he lunged towards Hannelís and Bilbo. Dwalin leapt back and pulled Hannelís out of Bolg’s path, but he could not reach Bilbo in time; as he ran past, Bolg struck Bilbo with the handle of his mace, knocking the Hobbit out cold. As suddenly as he moved forward, Bolg was gone, off down the steps.

Hannelís moved toward Bilbo, but Dwalin took her hand, pulling her down another tunnel. They met more Orcs soon, and more after that, but they were slain with little effort. With every minute that passed without the sight of her kin, the pit in Hannelís’ stomach grew, contorting and hardening into a mass of horror and pain. Thoughts of Fíli leapt unbidden to her mind--the fear and desperation in his voice as he begged the others to run, the way his body slumped forward after Bolg sliced him open--and she thought she would be sick.

At last, they ran out onto the flat expanse of ice that covered the center of Ravenhill. This was where Dwalin had seen Thorin last, and so this was where they returned. Hannelís spun in a wide circle, impatient to find her father on the ice. Her eyes briefly found Fíli’s corpse, and she stumbled over herself before she managed to look away. She walked right into Dwalin, and without a word, he threw out his arms to steady her. He barely reacted. He did not seem to see her.

Hannelís followed his gaze. Next to the edge of the ice, right before the ledge dropped off sharply into the valley below, was Thorin. Her father lay motionless on the ground, a dark puddle surrounding him, concentrated around his torso. It looked like blood.

Bilbo was bent over him him, weeping. The sobs wracked his body uncontrollably, battering the Hobbit with an alarming brutality. They were not tears of relief or concern. _No._ They were the tears of deep, agonizing loss.

“No,” she heard Dwalin whisper. He seemed frozen in place, his battle-ax hanging limply at his side.

In that moment, Hannelís wanted to rush to her father’s side. She wanted to take his hand and shake him, and force him to wake and see that all was well--the Orcs were gone and they were safe…but she knew she could not do those things. She could not wake a corpse.

Her feet moved her backward. They carried her off the ice and back into the tunnels. Somewhere, she dropped the Orc-blade in the snow. She did not care if she needed it anymore.

Hannelís’ mind felt dulled, like it was stuffed with wool. Every sound was muted; even her vision seemed cloudy. It took an age for her feet to lift off the ground, only to thud heavily back down a moment later.

On some level, she knew she was looking for something. The tunnels were littered with bodies, Orcs and creatures she did not recognize--giant bats, bent and broken like discarded toys. She found no Dwarves among the dead. Ah, _Kíli._ She was looking for Kíli.

Around a corner stood a tall figure, standing in an archway down the next tunnel. It was not an Orc. A long moment passed before Hannelís realized it was Legolas. He glanced at her, briefly, and then looked back through the archway. He was troubled. The hard knot in Hannelís’ stomach twisted painfully. She did not want to look. But her feet would not stop searching for what she knew was just beyond her sight. Slowly, haltingly, she reached the archway.

Tauriel knelt beside Kíli’s still form, weeping over his broken body. Hannelís felt something in her break, too.

Legolas murmured something in Sindarin, though Hannelís did not have the presence of mind to understand. Tauriel looked up at her and sighed. The Elf’s tears had washed her face clean. It occurred to Hannelís that she was not yet crying, and perhaps she should be.

Tauriel fumbled with something in her hands, and then held out her fist toward Hannelís, her fingers unfurling to reveal a small, green stone, rubbed smooth from use. Kíli’s totem. Hannelís took it, running her thumb over the Khuzdul. _Innikh dê. Return to me._ Hannelís thought of Dís, who knew not that both her sons now lay dead, and her brother with them. Her breath caught in her throat.

Wordlessly, Hannelís walked past Legolas and out of the tunnel, faster than before. Her breathing was shallow. The wool was coming unstuck from her mind, too quickly for her to manage. She no longer felt empty; she felt like she was on fire. The loss blazed in her like the flames of Lake-town. It was a wonder she was not consumed.

Her legs broke into a run. As she went, she passed the Elf-king on the ice. He was looking for his son, Hannelís realized. How good for him that his son still lived.

Hannelís fell then. She dropped to her knees and wailed, and found her hearing, too, was no longer dulled or muted. The pain rang in her ears, the sharpness of her grief cutting into her like a knife. She howled over and over, because her world had been shattered. _She_ had been shattered. She would never be whole again.

She clutched the totem to her chest like it was water, like it alone could extinguish the flames threatening to overcome her. She pressed it to her heart and willed it to take away her sorrow, as if it actually held the power it claimed, as if it really could return her kin to her. _Innikh dê. Return to me, return to me. Abba._

Too soon, much too soon, Dwalin was there again, lifting her to her feet once more. He had heard her, all the way across Ravenhill. He tried to quiet her, speaking fervently in her ear, “Hannelís, you must stop, you must be strong. There will be a time for grief, but it is not now. Dáin will be here soon, the others will come, and you must stand tall as our queen--because that’s what you are now, _azbad_.”

 _Azbad._ At the sound of the honorific, Hannelís groaned, a fresh wave of tears coming. It was not meant to be her title, not for many years to come. It was poison to hear it now. Dwalin shook her then, gently but firmly. “Hannelís, listen. Your father died for this, for the throne to remain within his line. You cannot let Dáin take that away.”

Hannelís wanted to tell him she did not care; Dáin could have the throne. But she did not have the words. Instead, she pushed the totem into Dwalin’s hand. She could not hold it for one second longer. She did not want it; it didn’t work. Dwalin looked at it, and murmured Kíli’s name, and sighed. It seemed like he might say something else, perhaps to console her, but Hannelís would not hear it. She walked back across the ice, Dwalin trailing behind her.

The Hobbit was still there beside her father, and his tears were just as bitter. He did not seem to notice Hannelís when she knelt beside him and took Thorin’s hand. The fallen Dwarf-king was battered and bloody, a jagged wound ripped through his middle. Bolg had killed them all the same way, she realized in some far-off corner of her mind. Stuck his blade in their bellies and torn them apart from the inside out. She pressed one hand flat against her stomach and grimaced, imagining the pain.

There had been a peace to Kíli’s corpse, almost like he could have been sleeping. Fíli, too, might have been asleep, save for the blood dripping down his chin. But Thorin only looked dead. He was not at rest, he was--stopped, frozen in a moment of struggling to stay alive, his eyes still staring wildly into the sky. He had fought until the end, long after his battle with Bolg was ended.

Hannelís’ eyes drifted to the Orc. She hadn’t seen him the first time she and Dwalin had found her father, but she noticed him upon her return. He lay a ways from Thorin, his body a mangled mess. It looked like Thorin had gouged his eyes out. He had taken a hand, too. The killing blow had been a dagger to the neck, it seemed. Hannelís hoped the Orc had choked on his own blood. He seemed to have suffered, and that was something. Thorin had not let Bolg live, had ended his vendetta against their line, though it had cost him everything.

 _Not everything._ Hannelís felt a hand on her shoulder. With effort, she looked away from her father and turned, finding Dáin looming over her, his eyes darkened by his helm. As she stood, he removed it, and for the first time she beheld her cousin’s hard, silver gaze, stern and battle-worn but weighty with grief, too.

Beyond Dáin were Dwarves from the Iron Hills, come to Ravenhill to see their dead king. _Was he ever their king?_ Hannelís was not sure. The Iron Hills swore allegiance to Durin’s line, but in practice, that meant they followed Dáin, Thorin’s cousin, their lord. But if Dáin answered to the King under the Mountain…then yes. Thorin _was_ their king.

The rest of the Company, too, had gathered. Hannelís had not heard them arrive. Some of the earlier haze had returned, her mind clouded from the shock. When she found Dwalin, he nodded, encouraging her--for _what?_ She didn’t know what she was meant to do. She looked back at Dáin, half-dazed.

“ _Azbad,_ ” he said, and he bowed low. As one, the rest followed, until all Hannelís could see was a sea of steel and iron helms, glittering in the sun.

Bilbo sniffled, and when Hannelís looked at him, he was gazing up at her in tear-stained wonder, as if it had just occurred to him that this was the end result of Thorin’s death. The world would keep turning, life would go on, even without the Dwarf he loved. And in his place, Hannelís would reign.

Slowly, the Dwarves unbent themselves. Dáin straightened last of all. As he rose, his eyes met hers, and she saw something sharp in them now. It was a shrewd, probing edge that bore into her, searching for…what? A sign of weakness? What was she, Hannelís wondered--she, a child, an orphaned Dwarfling--if _not_ weak?

 _You must stand tall,_ Dwalin had told her. _Your father died for this. For the throne to remain within his line. You cannot let Dáin take that away._ What would Dáin do, if he deemed her unworthy of his fealty? What would become of her, or her people, or the home her father had given his life to protect?

Hannelís summoned every last vestige of her strength and held his gaze, and did not look away. Dáin’s face was unreadable. “ _Azbad,_ ” he said a second time, softer now, half to himself. Then he nodded, and gave a smaller, shorter bow, and spoke in a loud, clear voice: “Long live the Queen under the Mountain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied, it's Election Day and I'm back. I needed to write to distract myself.
> 
> So passes Thorin son of Thráin, King under the Mountain. Hannelís is NOT going to handle this well.


	11. Long May She Reign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Durins are buried. Hannelís grows envious of her fallen kin.
> 
> Content warning for gore and a suicide attempt.

There were many words spoken for Thorin Oakenshield and his fallen kin that night, but Hannelís did not hear them. She watched as the Dwarves of Erebor and the Iron Hills laid the three sons of Durin in their tombs. There they would rest eternal in vaults of stone, sleeping beside the Dwarf-lords of old.

The minutes stretched into hours as tales of the fallen continued well into the late watches of the night. Hannelís felt the heat from the torches shrink away as the flames died down. She felt herself fading away, too, like the cold walls were slowly swallowing her. No one seemed to notice. Hardly anyone could bear to look at her. It was too painful, too risky--as though the depth of her loss might infect them, and take away everyone they loved, too.

Hannelís knew she was supposed to react when the Elf-king came to stand before her. She had not noticed his approach, because she was staring at her father. She only realized he was there when he planted himself in front of her, blocking her view of the dead Dwarf-king.

She did not want to look away. Half of her felt like she had been here forever, keeping watch over Thorin’s still form for a lifetime already. But the other half knew once the door of his tomb shut, it would be all too soon. It always too soon to bury the dead.

Resentment pulled at her as she tore her gaze away from her father, with difficulty, and looked to the Elf-king. Thranduil said nothing, raising his arms toward her. In them was Orcrist, safe in its sheath. _Oh._ She had almost forgotten how he had stolen it from Thorin, back when his guard captured the Company in Mirkwood. Barely a month had passed since then. Hannelís stared at the blade, wondering at how quickly her world had changed. She felt like a different person now.

Thranduil offered the sword to her, the pitiable daughter of the fallen King under the Mountain. It was a gesture of goodwill. It spoke so plainly, though he did not utter a word: _Your kin are dead, child. You have nothing. Have this._

It was the least he could do. It was the _only_ thing he could do, really. He knew little of the ways of Dwarves, and Elves dealt with death so rarely. He had no words of comfort to soothe an orphaned Dwarfling.

Hannelís took Orcrist into her hands, and as her fingers brushed the fine steel, she felt the weight of it consume her. The blade lay easily in her grasp, but it was like her whole being, both body and spirit, had plummeted from the peak of Erebor. This was her father’s sword, his before the Elf-king had robbed him of it. It only passed to her now because Thorin was dead, because he and Fíli and Kíli were slain. There was no one but Hannelís left to accept this tiny offering of peace in the wake of such a terrible battle.

Her heart ached, though she tried not to show it. The Elf-king had already departed from before her, but in his place stood another, bearing another gift. Bard the Bowman cupped the Arkenstone gingerly in his hands, wordlessly. It was hers to take.

Hannelís had heard songs sung of the Arkenstone’s beauty and power all her life. As a child, Thorin had promised her it would be hers when she reigned, and her children’s and her children’s children after her. It would pass down their line forever. But then it had turned her father mad. “No,” she whispered.

Part of her--a large part of her, that warred in her heart even as she fought to subdue it--wanted to take the crystal in her hands. She wanted her father’s promise to come true. She had loved the Arkenstone the first moment she laid eyes on it. She could kill for it, if need be. She felt that in her. She knew that darkness could grow, if she let it. She thought of Balin's words, and the doom of her line.

She gripped Orcrist tighter and shook her head. “No,” she repeated, more firmly this time. “It is the King’s Jewel. It should be buried with the king.”

The Bowman looked to someone Hannelís could not see--Balin, perhaps, for confirmation of the Dwarves’ permission, or even Gandalf. In the end, it was Dwalin who took the Arkenstone and carried it to Thorin’s still form, setting it upon his breast. Then Bard rejoined the band of Elves and Men standing apart from the Dwarves, and they departed in silence. They had come out of obligation, and now they had done their part, returning the things they had stolen from Thorin and his Company. They knew they did not belong.

Hannelís felt she did not belong, either. Bolg’s words rang in her ears.

_This one dies first._

_Then the brother._

_Then this wretched brat._

_Then you, Oakenshield. You will die last._

_Here ends your filthy bloodline._

She was supposed to die. She should be joined with her kin on cold slabs now, all light and life extinguished. The line of Durin was fractured and fragmented. Hannelís alone remained. It made sense that she die, too. In truth, she craved death. It was simpler than the pain she faced now, quicker, and certainly more merciful. Only death would release her from her grief. And Orcrist languished in her arms, thirsting for blood.

A shock ran through her then. The thought of the blade had risen unbidden to her mind, but it was not unwelcome. To end her life with her father’s blade, so that she may join him in the next world. She could see him again--and Fíli, and Kíli. Her breathing hitched, and tears threatened to spill over. Hannelís fought to keep her face even. She could not leave yet. Gandalf was speaking.

“The king has come unto his own, under mountain, under stone,” said the Wizard. Hannelís had read these words before, in an old book. They were spoken whenever a king or queen was laid to rest. But she had never heard them spoken aloud. “Send him now unto the deep, unto earth, eternal sleep. Through all the lands, let it be known--the king is dead.”

She shivered. _Through all the lands, let it be known_. Her grief was not her own. She was not simply a girl mourning the loss of her father and cousins. Her king was dead. Fíli and Kíli’s deaths changed little the political tides of Middle-earth. They were not the heirs, anyway. That fell to her. Thrór’s crown upon her head was evidence of that.

“Long live the queen!” It was Balin who raised the cry.

Hannelís forced herself to turn away from her father, away from the bodies she wished to join, and toward her people. As she turned, she heard the unsheathing of hundreds of swords and saw the raising of as many battle-axes. Thousands of eyes bore into her, and every Dwarf--even Dáin, his steel gaze sharp--repeated Balin’s cry: “Long live the queen! Long live the queen! Long live the queen!”

She bowed, carefully, minding the crown that threatened to slide down her head. It was too big for her. Dori had fretted over her hair, braiding it elaborately to fit the crown’s wide frame. She had sat there mute while he fussed with this and that, a scream building within her, licking at her throat like hot and angry flames. The same feeling was rising within her now. She should not be wearing a crown. She should be dead.

Hannelís stood still as the crowd cheered. Only those of Thorin’s Company remained silent. It felt wrong, distasteful to cheer her queenship when it meant her father was lost. When the last cheers faded, Hannelís stepped off the platform and took her leave. She was careful not to betray her grief. She was careful not to give the other Dwarves any cause to worry. She must only appear a tired, sad child--now queen--who was ready to sleep after the worst thing that could possibly happen to her had already happened.

Her feet seemed to know where she would die before Hannelís knew it herself; she was heading to the throne room, where her father might have ruled for decades yet. She might have come of age in these grand halls, living the life her father always meant for her to have. She might have wed one of her cousins. Thorin would not have forced her, as Dwarves only marry of their own choosing, even Dwarf-women, even royals. But there were so very few young Dwarves, and Hannelís had always liked the idea of ruling alongside Fíli someday. The throne was hers by birth, but before she was born, the heir apparent had been Fíli. He was kingly. He would have ruled well.

Hannelís shed her burdens as she entered the throne room. First came the blue velvet cloak Ori had repaired for Bilbo, fastened with a steel clasp emblazoned with the Khuzdul runes _S.T.,_ _Sigin-tarâg,_ for the house of Durin. She unhooked the clasp and let the cloak fall from her shoulders. Then she removed her leather armor and doublet, until she was left in just a tunic and trousers. Thrór’s crown she placed on the throne with care. It did not deserve to be discarded after all which had been done to reclaim it.

Orcrist’s sheath clattered to the floor, scattering echoes throughout the vast chamber. Hannelís settled onto her knees. She would have one chance before the pain came, before the shock was too great for her to continue. She breathed deep to steady herself and positioned the curve of the blade against the thin fibers that separated the cold metal from her belly. Her hands shook violently, and she had to fight to keep the blade steady. She only had one chance. In one clean motion, she sliced herself open.

At once, blood began dying her tunic a shocking crimson. Her hold on Orcrist was broken, but she did not hear the blade hit the floor. She could only hear her pulse swimming in her ears, drowning out all else. She did not know if she was screaming, but she could feel her heart thudding in her chest, panicked.

She touched her palm to her abdomen and pulled it away, dripping and red. The pain was sharp and unforgiving, and she wondered if this was how her father felt as he died. He had been slain by a blade to the gut. The same was true of Fíli and Kíli. It was fitting that she die this way. She would be with them soon.

The front of her tunic was soaked in blood now, and Hannelís trembled uncontrollably. At least the pain was receding. She found that odd. Thankfully, she did not have to wonder long.

She let herself fall forward, and the cold stone floor could have been a bed of soft grass, her senses were so hazy now. She knew her strength was failing. It would not be long now. Hannelís closed her eyes and drifted into death.

She did not know how long she floated in the in-between, the space between this world and the next. Her awareness was clouded for a long time, black and muted. Gradually, however, the fog lifted, and she was in the Halls of Mandos. It was different than she had imagined--warm, with feather-beds. She could tell that much as she regained consciousness. Flames crackled pleasantly nearby-- _ah,_ so there were fireplaces in this world. How lovely. Or perhaps they were bonfires. Hannelís did not know because she had yet to open her eyes.

And so she did. And she was not in the Halls of Mandos.

She was alive. That fact was painfully obvious. She was breathing, and whole, or mostly so, in a wide bed in a glowing chamber she did not recognize.

She was also not alone. Óin sat facing the fire, but as Hannelís shifted in place, he turned. He was without his brass hearing-horn, yet somehow he heard.

Then, all too soon, he was at her side, spewing words of relief and comfort, all the while horribly, utterly oblivious to Hannelís’ despair. And she did despair; as it fully dawned on her that she had not died, that she was still very much alive, the tears poured out hot and angry. She may have been deaf to her screams in the throne room, but she heard them now.

“No,” she wept, her voice a mix of sob and shout. _No, no. It’s not fair._ She pounded the bed with her fists and wailed, “Why didn’t you let me die? You should have let me die.” She said that over and over, screaming until her throat was raw.

Óin had to call for reinforcements. Dwarves Hannelís did not know, from the Iron Hills, came rushing in to restrain her. It was then that the pain hit her in full; in all her thrashing, her wound had ripped open. _I should be dead._ The Dwarves subdued her easily, and as soon as they stilled her, Óin forced something bitter down her throat. “Something to help,” he murmured, patting her arm.

_You should have let me die. You should have let me…_ But the drug worked quickly, and no more words came out. Her eyelids fluttered once, twice, and then sleep pulled her under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "But westrons, I thought you said you weren't going to be updating this week because of the election?" I can't help myself; I am a monster. Anyway, I hope I've sufficiently delivered on the "Battle of Five Armies Angst" tag. Now I need to deliver on the "Angst with a Happy Ending" tag. Hannelís will find meaning and purpose and love in life…somehow!
> 
> I love hearing your thoughts, so please don't hesitate to comment!


	12. Of Debts and Diplomacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannelís is alive…but not well. The new queen must try her hand at diplomacy.
> 
> Content warning for mentions of a suicide attempt.

“And they do not know?” Hannelís asked for the third time.

“No, _azbad,_ ” said Dwalin. He faced away as Óin secured the fresh dressings on her wound, in an attempt to grant her some semblance of privacy.

Óin’s eyes darted up just in time to see the grimace that flittered across her face in response to the title. _Azbad._ It still felt wrong on her ears. She was queen, yes. Because her king was dead. The grief rose sharply in her then, threatening to throttle her, but she pushed it down. She could not come undone now.

“They have not asked why their audience was delayed?” She kept asking the same questions. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Dwalin was lying to her, to protect her in her fragile state. Something was wrong. She felt it twist in her gut, some sour bit of news that had yet to be revealed. Or maybe she just thought everything was wrong now.

The Elf-king and Bard the Bowman were owed payment, for both returning the Arkenstone _and_ their help in the Battle for Erebor--the Battle of Five Armies, as it was coming to be known. Initially, the Elves and Men had stood against the Dwarves as enemies, but with the arrival of the Orcs and Wargs, they had joined their forces without question. With their aid, Erebor had survived. The Dwarves would not forget that.

As it stood, Thranduil and Bard had already waited a week for their audience with the young Dwarf-queen. Before they could meet, Hannelís needed to recover--not fully, but enough that she could stand steady and treat with them without passing out. She had lost much blood. Once, Óin had wondered at her survival, remarking at her hardiness. But when he saw the way her face contorted in anger and sorrow, he apologized and quickly changed the subject.

Still, she was not completely healed. That would take more time, of which they had little left to spare. Her would-be allies grew impatient. To be more precise, the Elf-king was impatient. The Bowman, she had been told, was more forgiving.

“They suspect something happened,” Dwalin allowed, “but no, they have not asked for specifics.”

Rumors had spread like dragon-fire once the new queen had, quite suddenly, disappeared. Some believed Erebor was cursed by Smaug, or that the Dwarves had unleashed some ancient plague, and she had succumbed. Some even questioned whether Hannelís had gone mad, like her father.

To combat the lies and Thranduil’s impatience, there had been a brief discussion over allowing Dáin to hold the audience in her place, but that plan was soon abandoned. Balin and Dwalin deemed it too risky; Dáin was Lord of the Iron Hills in his own right, and Thorin’s second cousin on top of that. He had a strong claim to the throne of Erebor, and the Dwarves of the Iron Hills outnumbered the remnant of Thorin’s Company. They could not risk anything that could feed the rumors or sow further instability.

Dori and Ori arrived then, with Hannelís’ gown in tow. Ori had found it while foraging in long-forgotten chambers that, housing no gold or gems to speak of, Smaug had largely ignored. The dragon had little use for Dwarf-apparel. Although moths and other insects had eaten through everything made of wool, Ori was able to uncover some clothing made of linen and silk that had weathered the centuries. For today, he had selected a faded purple gown. At Dwalin’s request, Ori had added a burgundy panel around the middle.

The two brothers helped Hannelís into the gown, Óin fussing with the fabric nearest her bandage, making sure it was not too tight. Dwalin looked her up and down. “It suits you,” he said with a sigh. He nodded to the added panel. “The red will hide any blood, if the wound reopens. But it shouldn’t,” he continued, looking to Óin for his agreement. The old Dwarf gave it, with some hesitation.

“There,” murmured Ori, fastening the last tie and stepping back to admire his work.

Dwalin was not finished with his assessment. “You look pale, though there’s nothing to be done about that. But you look like yourself.” He spoke to Dori next: “Her hair should be braided. It will make her look more presentable, less…” His eyes were back on Hannelís. “Fragile.”

Guilt tugged at her. She knew how she worried them, all of Thorin’s Company who loved her so. She caught them looking at her or exchanging glances with each other, all too often during this past week, when they thought she wasn’t paying attention. They did not trust that she wouldn’t try to harm herself again.

Hannelís didn’t trust _herself,_ for that matter. She didn’t know what she would do, or when. The grief took her unexpectedly, bowling her over in the middle of a sentence, or breaking her out of a deep sleep. Sometimes, she felt almost normal, and in those moments she believed she could learn to adjust to a life without her family beside her. But those moments were rare, and they never lasted long. The smallest thing could break her, and then she would be hunched over, sobbing, begging for death once more. Dwalin was right. She _was_ fragile.

Dori pulled her into the chair in front of a small table, upon which he had set the supplies he might need: combs and conditioning oil, pins and ribbons, a mirror. Amidst the assorted objects was another, more surprising to Hannelís--he had brought a pair of shears, small but sharp. They had taken Orcrist from her, obviously, and Dwalin had made the Company scour her room for anything else with a fine enough edge, anything that could, in her hands, be dangerous.

Dwalin had not seen the shears. He was ushering Ori out of the room, the young Dwarf having completed his task. Then he motioned for Óin to join him in the hallway. With one final glance back at Hannelís, they left the chamber to discuss…whatever they meant to discuss. All the while, Dori fussed over her.

She did not like him touching her hair. He had braided her hair before, for the funeral, but she had only been half-alive then, half-aware. Now, she was all too conscious of the feel of his hands on her, the comb running through her curls. It was Thorin who braided her hair, him or Fíli. Hannelís knew _how_ to manage her own hair, of course, but she lacked their skill. Her braids never looked nice enough. And so her father took care of them for her. He liked doing it. _Had_ liked, she corrected herself.

It felt too intimate for Dori to be doing this. He was not her father, not her cousin, not her family. But he was only doing what Dwalin told him to do, and so she tried to submit to his hand. Still, her eyes kept drifting to the shears on the table. In her mind, she saw herself take them and hack at her curls, so that no one would ever touch them again. She felt half-feral imagining it.

“Oh,” sighed Dori, a pin flying out of his hand and clattering on the floor. He _tsked_ and bent over.

Hannelís had her opportunity. A rush of grief and excitement seized her, and she snatched the shears and gripped a thick handful of hair and--

Dori’s head shot up at the sound of the blades snipping together. He gasped in horror and shouted her name, but she was already removing another chunk. No sooner had Dori screamed than Dwalin and Óin burst back into the room in a panic. When Dwalin saw the shears, he lunged forward, but Dori was ahead of him; he pried them from her grasp before she could make a third cut. Really, she _let_ him have them. She knew it was not worth the struggle.

At once, Dwalin rounded on Dori. “What were you thinking, letting her near those?”

Dori trembled, tears springing to his eyes. “I--they were in my kit, I did not think to remove them, Dwalin, I’m sorry--”

“So you _didn’t_ think,” huffed Dwalin. Hannelís thought he might turn purple, he was so wrathful. But instead he looked at her, or rather her reflection in the mirror, and then he put his face in his hands. He stood there for a long moment before falling into the armchair by the fire, breathing hard.

They all watched him, waiting. Slowly, it dawned on Hannelís that his shoulders were shaking. Then she heard him sniffling. And then Hannelís wanted to die all over again--not because of her grief, but because of her shame. The guilt hit her like a wall, the weight of the worry and fear and everything else she had put them through crushing her without mercy. She hated herself for doing this to them.

Óin went to Dwalin, resting his hand on the tattooed Dwarf’s back. Dori patted Hannelís’ shoulder, gently urging her to turn back around toward the mirror. “Right,” he whispered, pulling out his handkerchief to dry his eyes. He then surveyed the damage, holding curls of varying lengths together, in an effort to see what was salvageable.

Quietly, while Dwalin composed himself, Dori trimmed the rest of her hair to match the shortest layer. In the end, her curls fell just below her chin. She had lost over a foot of hair. It didn’t look terrible, truth be told. When Dori began to braid the top of her hair, to make some of it neater, at least, Hannelís finally found her voice: “Please don’t.”

In the mirror, Dori met her gaze, and nodded. “All right, dear,” he murmured, smoothing down her curls and stepping away. He glanced over at the other Dwarves and cleared his throat. “She is ready, Dwalin.”

Dwalin pushed himself to his feet while Hannelís, too, stood and turned to face him. His eyes drifted over her cropped hair, and she saw them begin to water again. “Dori,” he said, motioning for the shears. He walked past Hannelís and leaned over the table, toward the mirror. He ran a hand over his beard once, twice, three times. Then he sighed and began sawing off his beard.

Óin gasped when Dwalin made the first cut. Hair was important to Dwarves, and beards even more so. As a general rule, they let it grow, and the elaborate braids and beads they wove into it were a marker of many things. Their vocation, their marital status, their bloodline. But grief changed everything.

Thorin once had a long beard, before Smaug came. The Khuzdul name for Durin’s Folk, _Sigin-tarâg,_ literally meant _Longbeards._ But after dragon-fire had scorched his home and claimed hundreds of his people’s lives, Thorin had cropped his beard short and kept it that way, in memory of those he had lost.

Hannelís had not been consciously thinking of this mourning custom when she cut her hair, but perhaps it had been there, in some corner of her mind. Perhaps she had known in her heart that it was the right thing to do, the Dwarven thing. And now Dwalin did the same. He had lost his king, his cousin, his best friend. Hannelís was not alone in her grief. That made her feel better, at least for a moment.

When Dwalin was done, he shepherded Hannelís from the chamber, and together they made their way through the dim mountain-halls. They went slowly, for her sake. Each step twisted her abdomen, sending pain shooting through her core. At last, they entered the throne room, where the Elf-king and the Bowman stood waiting.

“It will be over before you know it,” whispered Dwalin. “They are eager to return home.”

Dwalin remained in the archway while Hannelís walked to the throne. Her eyes flitted down to the floor where she had knelt only a week before, Orcrist in hand. Whoever had cleaned the stone had done a good job. She could almost believe her blood had never stained it red. She tore her gaze from the floor as she settled onto the cushions Dwalin had insisted be added to the throne. Anything to make this easier on her healing, battered body.

Thranduil spoke first. “We had nearly given up hope of having this audience, your Grace. We worried you had fallen ill.”

Hannelís struggled to keep her face pleasant when he used the Westron honorific. It was better than _princess,_ at least. Less mocking, anyway. “Your concern is appreciated. I apologize for my absence; I have been busy discussing the future of Erebor with my advisors.”

This was not entirely untruthful; there _had_ been _some_ advising in the midst of the desperate rush to heal Hannelís enough to get her up and walking and ready for this moment. For example, Balin had advised her on giving this answer, just after he told her what gifts to give them.

Before Thranduil could speak again, Hannelís continued: “I do not wish to keep you long. I know you both have important duties to attend to with your own people.”

She took a deep breath, fighting to hide a wince as her wound gave a sharp twinge. “Your Grace, we agreed to exchange the Arkenstone for one fourteenth of Erebor’s treasure. That makes one twenty-eighth to each you and the Men of Lake-town.” She gestured to her left, where one of Dáin’s Dwarves stood guard over a mass of overflowing barrels. _Torsten,_ Dwalin had said his name was. “These fourteen barrels hold the beginning of your payment. Torsten will help you arrange delivery of the remainder--but I wanted to ensure your stolen wine-barrels were replaced, as well.”

The corners of the Elf-king’s lips curved upward. He seemed amused, which had been Balin’s goal in adding the barrels. Diplomacy was always easier with a smile. He inclined his head and said, “I thank you. This is a generous gift.”

Now Hannelís turned to Bard the Bowman. He was the one who had slain the dragon--but not before his home was razed to the ground and sunk to the bottom of the lake. It was hard to quantify just how much they all owed him.

“Your--” She realized rather suddenly that Balin had not told her how to address Bard. He was not a king, or a lord, yet it felt wrong not to honor him in some way. “Sir,” she began again, “I know no amount of gold can replace all that Lake-town has lost. I do not know if it’s even possible to rebuild in the same place, or if you’d want to. But my father often told me of the glory of Dale. It lies in ruin now, but I should like to see it renewed.”

She took a deep breath before continuing. She knew, from what Balin had told her, that Dáin did not like this gift. But Dáin was not king. “If that is your desire as well, then here is my proposition: Dwarves will be coming soon from the Iron Hills and the Blue Mountains, and they are skilled in many trades and will be eager to begin work. I am willing to lend you half of all our craftsmen, along with the gold required to pay their services--on top of your one twenty-eighth share, of course. All you must do is provide the appropriate documentation detailing your needs, and we will fulfill them. This is not a loan, but a goodwill offering from my people. What say you, sir?”

Unlike the Elf-king, Bard was less guarded with his emotions. His face alighted with hope. “I say thank you, your Grace,” he answered with a dip of his head. He paused then, and caution darkened his features as he asked, “And what of now, before your craftsmen arrive? My people are refugees, with little food and shelter to last the winter.”

“The mountain is open to you until your new home is ready,” said Hannelís. She gestured again to the Dwarf beside her. “When the time comes, Torsten will be able to help you draw up labor contracts and manage your funds. For now…”

She trailed off, looking at the Dwarf. He had experience in Dáin’s treasury, which was why her cousin had recommended him for this task. Balin had not prepared her for the Men of Lake-town needing shelter, though now it seemed like it should have been rather obvious. But she did not know if she could give that duty to Torsten. Briefly, her eyes met Dwalin’s, still standing in the archway, watching her. Understanding her, he nodded and pressed a hand to his chest.

Hannelís looked back to Bard. “My Company will set chambers aside for your people, and…show them around the mountain.” _Please let it sound like I know what I’m doing._ “As for food, we are also in need. With the arrival of my cousin’s army, what supplies we had are almost gone. Soldiers have already been sent back to the Iron Hills for more, but they will not return for some weeks yet.”

She steeled herself and looked to the Elf-king once more. His face was inscrutable, but surely he knew what she would ask. “Perhaps the vast stores of Mirkwood could be shared with both our peoples in this time? For further payment, of course.”

She heard the slightest laugh--no, it was a scoff. It took everything she had not to roll her eyes or remind Thranduil how generous she had already been. Hannelís was well aware that the hatred of Elves was all but hereditary for Dwarves, so deeply entrenched was the animosity between their races. Still, Thranduil did himself no favors. Hannelís had experienced the kindness of the Elves before, in Rivendell and even in Mirkwood, from Galadhrían and Tauriel. The Elf-king, unfortunately, was quite unlike them.

“For more gold, of course,” answered Thranduil. “It is my deepest desire that our kingdoms live together in peace.”

“And mine,” Hannelís agreed.

With that, the audience came to a mercifully quick end. Torsten escorted the Elf-king and the Bowman from the throne room; as soon as they were out of sight, Hannelís fell back into the cushioned seat with a sigh of relief. Her wound ached from the sudden movement, and she grimaced, shutting her eyes. _That didn't go horribly._

Footsteps echoed through the chamber as someone approached the throne. “You did well, _azbad._ ” It was Dwalin. “They would be so proud of you.” If they could see her. If they were not dead. The possible endings to his sentence swirled in her mind.

“I do not pretend to know your pain.” She opened her eyes. Dwalin was beside her, kneeling next to the throne. He took her hand and squeezed. “Nor do I judge what your pain drove you to. I could say that one day you will be with them again, when it is your time. But that does not soothe the grief you feel now.”

He sighed, and it was clear he was fighting back tears. “I wish I could tell you it will go away, but it doesn’t. You will always carry this loss with you. You will always carry _them._ Our hearts are too stubborn to let go, damn the Smith.” Together, they laughed, and Hannelís realized her cheeks were wet. She was already crying.

Gently, he tucked her hair behind one ear. “You will learn how to hold this grief without it consuming you. This, I can promise. You are strong, Lís. You have Durin’s blood inside you. You will make a fine queen.”

She prayed he was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Forbes estimated Smaug’s treasure to be worth $54.1 billion. That makes one fourteenth of the wealth of Erebor roughly $3.8 billion, so Thranduil and Bard are walking away with a crisp $1.9 billion a pop. When I found that figure, at first I was like, wait, wouldn’t $54.1 billion suddenly entering the Middle-earth economy be disastrous and cause massive inflation? But no, because it’s gold, which is a “hard asset,” so says my economist father. In other news, my dad has newfound respect for Thorin for bringing so many new jobs and wealth to the region surrounding Erebor.
> 
> In OTHER news, congrats to President-Elect Joe Biden and Vice President-Elect Kamala Harris. I, for one, am very excited to finally have the first Jewish Second Gentleman. Hope y’all are doing well, and hope you enjoyed!
> 
> As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts!


	13. The Lord Regent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dáin returns from the Iron Hills with food and, possibly, a coup.

Dáin returned from the Iron Hills in power and splendor. The ravens were a herald of his coming. They rose over the hill like a black cloud, whisking their way toward the mountain. Then came his noble cavalcade, with Dáin and his household at its head. He, his wife Rúna, and their young son: Thorin Stonehelm--Thorin III, after both Thorin Oakenshield and the Thorin who had lived and died centuries before any of them had first drawn breath, so ancient he was half-mythic in their minds.

This Thorin was not like Hannelís’ father. He was younger than either Fíli or Kíli, a mere stripling of 60, which still made him twice her age. Yet years remained before he could call himself a Dwarf grown. Where her father was broad, this Thorin was wiry. Where her father was dark and black-haired, this Thorin was fair with tight ginger curls. His chin was dusted in the sparsest sprinkling of red, the beginnings of a beard. He shared Dáin’s hard, silver eyes.

Behind Dáin’s wife and son rode his household guard, robust and foreboding. That was the first real sign something was wrong. He had not brought a chosen few of his best Dwarves, a modest host to escort his family safely to Erebor. No, Dáin had come in force.

And he came with food. That was the pretense that had taken him from the Lonely Mountain. Their pressing and growing hunger had been his excuse, to ride east and gather all his arms before returning to claim his prize.

They arrived early in the morning. Hannelís dressed in a rush when Dwalin brought the news. She reached for the nearest gown, but Dwalin stayed her hand. “No, _azbad,_ ” he said, his voice tight. “The armor. You must be protected now.”

And so, at Dwalin’s bidding, she pulled a shirt of mail over her tunic before putting on her leather jerkin. Dwalin fussed with the sleeves of the leather over-coat, yanking them down until they hid the mail. The collar, too, had to be adjusted to hide the armor beneath. As he fastened her bracers, he said, “We do not know what he has planned. But whatever it is, we will keep you safe.”

Hannelís thought he said that more for his benefit than hers. Perhaps he wanted to believe it was true. But they were outnumbered. Beyond the guard Dáin brought with him now, every Dwarf in Erebor was from the Iron Hills, except for the Company. By her count, Hannelís had ten Dwarves on her side; Dáin had nearly a thousand. He would succeed in whatever he planned to do.

“But he accepted me,” she whispered as they hurried through the tunnels and passageways that led to the city-gate. Really, she need have not whispered; the halls were deserted, everyone already assembled, awaiting their lord. Hannelís thought back to the day of the battle, when Dáin had first called her _azbad_ and recognized her before his soldiers as Queen under the Mountain. “Would he go back on that?”

Dwalin kept his voice low. “Much has happened since then, _azbad._ ”

Only one thing had happened between Thorin’s death and Dáin’s departure that could make such a difference. Hannelís stopped abruptly, her hand going to her stomach. It had been three weeks since she sought to end her life. Dáin had left a little over two weeks ago, the day after she awoke in that warm bed and despaired to find she was still alive. Perhaps she had not despaired alone. Perhaps he, too, had hoped for her death.

For a moment, she wondered if it would not be too terrible, Dáin stealing the Kingdom under the Mountain. She could go home, to Ered Luin. Her aunt and grandmother were yet alive; her family was not wholly lost. But her father had died for this, for the throne to stay within his line. Surely, Thorin had never imagined Hannelís would be queen so soon…but how could she give up her crown now? To relinquish it willingly felt like the worst affront to her father’s memory, to say nothing of the memories of her cousins.

“He will not take it from me,” she said, louder than she intended. Dwalin turned, realizing for the first time that she had halted. Her voice took on heat as she continued: “ _I_ am the queen, _I_ have the greater claim. The Lord of the Iron Hills is _my_ vassal. Dáin answers to _me._ ”

“I know, _azbad,_ ” said Dwalin as he half-ran to her, a finger to his lips, begging her to keep quiet. They knew not who could be listening. “I know.” He took her arm and guided her forward. “But we cannot delay.”

It seemed the whole mountain had turned out to greet Dáin and his column. Even the refugees of Lake-town had gathered near the gate, likely drawn forth out of curiosity than anything else; if all of the Dwarves were flocking to one place, then clearly something important was about to happen. Hannelís and Dwalin passed Bard and his family. The Bowman bowed his head, a motion she returned, but then his eyes locked on the ax in Dwalin’s hand. He met her gaze. Something, indeed, was about to happen.

His look made Hannelís pause, and she touched Dwalin’s arm to get his attention. “Should I be armed?”

Dwalin shushed her and glanced around in a wide circle before pulling her into a small chamber off the main entry hall. He removed the sword hanging from his belt--Orcrist, Hannelís realized with a jolt--and quickly tied it to her own. She hadn’t known what became of her father’s blade, after. So Dwalin had held onto it, keeping it safe. Safe for her, and _from_ her.

He nudged her chin with his thumb, lifting her eyes to his. “You will return this as soon as is safe.” He was plainly waiting for a nod, and so nod she did. “It is more for appearances than anything else,” he told her. “It will make him think twice, if violence is his aim.”

As they closed the distance between themselves and the city-gate, the rest of the Company materialized out of the crowd, joining Hannelís and Dwalin as they went. No words were necessary; everyone understood the danger. First Balin fell in step with them, then Glóin and Óin, then Bofur and Nori. Bifur, Bombur. Dori and Ori. The Company pushed their way to the front of the crowd, and once they were there, the Dwarves closed ranks around Hannelís. She stood at the head, flanked by Balin and Dwalin, the others on three sides around them, keeping all others at bay.

Dáin’s procession came to a halt before the gate. The Lord of the Iron Hills and his family rode dire goats, the rest of his force on foot. It reminded Hannelís fleetingly of the Company’s view just before the battle, as they gazed out from the battlements high above the gate at Thranduil and Bard on horseback, the Elven army behind them.

But the comparison ended there. The Company did not stand now on the battlements. Where they had once forged a tiny entrance in the stacked rocks below to join their kin on the battlefield, the Dwarves of the Iron Hills had skillfully crafted a large arch enforced by timber. The Arkenstone lay buried beneath their feet. The ruin of Lake-town no longer spat smoke into the morning sky. Her father was not beside her.

Dáin removed his helm with a flourish, handing it off to his son. He ran a gloved hand over his shock of silver-orange hair and looked upon the Dwarves gathered at his feet. He spurred his goat on and began pacing back and forth before the gate, meeting the eyes of his subjects as he went. When he passed Hannelís, he slowed, briefly. His eyes flicked to Balin, to Dwalin, back to her. At last, he returned to the center of his column and took his place between Rúna and Thorin Stonehelm.

“I have been to the halls of our fathers,” he began, his voice booming, “and I return with food and sustenance to see us through the winter. It is with great joy and pride that I look upon this, the seat of our kings of old. And greater, still, is the joy I feel in bringing my son to witness the glory of Erebor reclaimed. Baruch Mahal.”

The words rippled through the crowd in answer. _Baruch Mahal. Blessed be Mahal._

The Lord of the Iron Hills stretched his arms wide and spoke the bracha clearly: “Baruch atah Mahal ha-Napach, Valareinu, shehecheyanu v'kimanu v'higiyanu laz'man hazeh.” _Blessed are you Mahal the Smith, our Vala, who has kept us alive and sustained us and brought us to this moment._ It was a marker of joyous occasions, of firsts. It felt like pandering to Hannelís.

All around, the Dwarves replied, “Amen.” Thorin said it louder than any other, a bright grin overtaking his features as he gazed at the Lonely Mountain. Last of all, his eyes fell on Hannelís, and if it was still possible, the boy's grin widened. She had yet to answer the bracha. “Amen,” she murmured grudgingly.

“But now the hard work begins,” continued Dáin. “We have won the Lonely Mountain; now, we must rebuild it. We must once more make it great, a jewel of Middle-earth.” Throughout the crowd, Dwarves voiced their assent. “Before this can be accomplished, however, we must have strong, unyielding leadership.”

Beside her, Dwalin shifted his ax, raising it closer to his chest. Likewise, all around her, she felt the Company stiffen as they moved into defensive stances. _We won’t win._ It was hopeless. If it came to blows, they had no hope of surviving. Still, Hannelís set her hand on Orcrist’s hilt.

For one long, heavy moment, Dáin met Hannelís’ gaze. It was like his eyes had turned to stone. They were utterly inscrutable; she could not see what emotion lay beyond them. Did he hate her? Wish her dead? Did he pity her? “Our queen is young,” he said, still watching her, his voice measured. “She needs guidance.”

Again, agreement rippled through the crowd. Hannelís frowned, not understanding where he was going. _Is this a coup or not?_ Seeing Hannelís’ confusion, Dáin’s lips curled in the faintest of smiles. Then he broke her gaze and stared out at the crowd. “I invoke z’chut hadayal.”

Cheers erupted around her. Hannelís spun toward Balin and Dwalin. “Right of the steward?” she asked, translating the Khuzdul. “What does that mean? A _steward,_ what is that?”

Balin sighed. He looked up at the triumphant lord in weary resignation. “Dáin, _azbad,_ has just declared himself your regent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, here's a fun fact: the other day, I was wondering if Khazad-dûm should actually be pronounced "ḥazad doom" because kh (like ch) is how the guttural Hebrew letters כ/ח are often transliterated, and Khuzdul is based on Hebrew. HOWEVER, the official Hebrew translation of Khazad-dûm is קְהָזָד דוּם, which is pronounced "kə-ha-zad doom." So, no, Khazad-dûm isn't a guttural kh and the hard k pronunciation in the films is correct.
> 
> Anyway, Lord Dáin is Lord REGENT Dáin now. Hope you enjoy, and as always, let me know your thoughts!


	14. A Strategic Union

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannelís learns the deeper implications of Dáin’s regency.

_Regent,_ she understood. Dáin had succeeded in claiming the throne, though no one could accuse him of staging a coup. He’d thought of a workaround. Under Dwarven law, he could claim guardianship over his young royal cousin, protecting her and her crown and her kingdom until she came of age. By rights, the regency should have gone to her nearest kin--to her grandmother Rivkís or even Dís--but they were half a world away.

Three weeks had passed since the Battle of Five Armies. Surely, the ravens had arrived in Ered Luin, bearing the news of Thorin and Fíli and Kíli’s deaths, and Hannelís’ ascent to the throne. Those same ravens could be returning to Erebor now, with an answering message. But even if they left today, Dís and Rivkís would not reach Erebor for months. By the time they arrived, Dáin’s regency would be all but irreversible. The numbers were on his side, and as more Dwarves arrived from the Iron Hills, his advantage would only grow. He had gotten what he wanted.

The immediate aftermath of Dáin’s declaration was chaos. His peopled were thrilled--they rejoiced loudly, and _physically,_ breaking into song as many took up a great dance. They linked arms and wove through the crowd like a chain, their voices lifting high the wordless melody. _At least_ they’re _happy,_ thought Hannelís wryly. All around her, the remnant of Thorin’s Company remained stiff and guarded, uncertain whether the danger had passed.

Above the celebration, Hannelís watched Thorin Stonehelm search the crowd until he spotted her once more, and then a bright smile overtook his features, and he slid down from his goat. Seeing this, Balin took her arm and shouted in her ear, “Come, _azbad--_ introductions must be made.”

The old Dwarf cleared a path through the dancing, pulling Hannelís along until at last they stood before the wiry, red-headed youth. Thorin peeled off his gloves and reached for her hand, still beaming widely. She had yet to return his smile. She did, however, give him her hand, which he took firmly in his own and kissed.

“ _Azbad,_ ” he said over the din, bowing low. As he rose, his silver eyes flicked up to meet hers. “It is truly an honor. I am--”

“Thorin Stonehelm,” she answered for him. She had to raise her voice to be heard above the singing. “And how is it you came by that title, Stonehelm? Are you particularly hardheaded?”

Beside her, Balin inhaled sharply, but he did not reprimand her. He would not do that publicly, though Hannelís fully expected him to mention it as soon as they were alone. But instead of showing offense, the Dwarf-lad only laughed. “I’ve been told so, yes,” he said, “though only by my mother, and not quite so bluntly.”

Without meaning to, Hannelís grinned, a laugh escaping her. Encouraged, Thorin’s smile grew ever deeper. “In truth,” he continued, running a hand through his ginger curls, “it’s rather silly. I wanted to craft myself a helm of obsidian--but it did not work as well as I’d intended.” He traced a finger over two scars, one across his nose, the other on his cheek. “It shattered once someone hit it with their ax hard enough.”

“So it’s a jest, then?” Hannelís tried to look unimpressed, though she secretly thought the scars suited him.

Thorin shrugged in a charming sort of way, but before he could respond, Dwalin stepped between them. “Pardon me, _azbad,_ ” he said, tossing a dark look at his brother, “but I am afraid I must speak with you and Lord Balin in private.”

Hannelís was mostly grateful for the interruption. She and Balin excused themselves, and Thorin farewelled them with a final low bow. Before they disappeared back into the mountain, Hannelís glanced over her shoulder once more. Dáin had his son in a headlock, dragging him headfirst into the revelry. Thorin wormed his way free, laughing, and when his head shot up over the crowd, he locked eyes with her one last time. He smiled and ducked his head, almost shyly.

Hannelís looked away, something squirming in her gut. Envy, perhaps. The boy was happy, in a carefree way. He did not have to work at it. His life was good, or at least it appeared to be. His world had not fallen apart. It was easy for her to feel jealous of that.

When they reached Balin’s chamber, Dwalin slammed the door and rounded on his brother. “You knew he was doing this,” he said, seething. “You knew this was his plan.”

Balin waved the accusation away, pulling a face. “I knew no more than you, brother--which is to say, we _both_ knew what Dáin _might_ do--”

“Oh, fuck _might do,_ ” dismissed Dwalin. “You were sympathetic to him from the start.”

“Sympathetic?” echoed Hannelís, struggling to catch up. She looked to Balin, not believing. “To Dáin?”

“ _No,_ ” said Balin, and then sighed. “I understood _why_ he wanted the regency, that’s all--”

“So you _did_ know,” she cut in, with more than a hint of betrayal in her voice.

She could see how it pained him, seeing her wounded like that. “Lís, dear, you must understand--”

“ _What_ must I understand?”

“We did not know if you would survive!” Balin shouted, before he could stop himself.

For a moment, Dwalin looked like he might argue with his brother, but then his face contorted in grief from the memory. He lowered himself into a chair and stared at the fire.

With a tenderness so sweet it hurt, Balin continued: “Hannelís…we were terrified. We had just lost your father, your cousins, and now we thought we might lose _you._ Of course we want nothing more than to see you on the throne, ruling as Thorin always dreamed you would…” His voice cracked on her father’s name, and Balin cleared his throat, pushing the tears down. “But we _had_ to prepare for all possible outcomes, for the sake of our people. For the good of Erebor.”

From his chair, Dwalin scowled. “ _The good of Erebor,_ ” he spat, the words bitter on his tongue. “You’re repeating Dáin now, are you? No sooner had we stopped the bleeding, and there he was, fucking _salivating_ over the crown. No concern for _you, azbad,_ just Erebor, poor Erebor, what are we to do about Erebor? Even after you awoke, that was all he could talk about.”

“Consider his perspective, brother,” said Balin, though Hannelís rather didn’t care to hear it. Dwalin painted quite the picture on his own, and it was not charitable. “He arrived to defend the Lonely Mountain alongside his cousin, his sworn king, an experienced ruler he _knew_ and trusted. But when the battle was done, who stood before him?” He looked at Hannelís, an apology in his eyes as he spoke next: “A bereaved child, with no real political training to speak of, a stranger who--forgive me, dear--is only half-Dwarf, and has suddenly found herself in charge of one of the greatest fortunes Middle-earth has ever known.”

His words stung. He knew it, and hated himself for it. But they needed to be said. Hannelís felt herself shrink under the weight of them. She sat down in a chair opposite Dwalin, playing it back in her head. One point stuck out in particular, louder than the others. “Why should it matter who my mother is?”

Again, Balin sighed. “It does not matter, not to us.” He went to her, resting a hand on the back of her armchair as he explained with great care, “You know as well as I that Dwarf-human pairings are common enough, in Ered Luin. And even before the fall of Erebor and Dale, they were not uncommon here. But it is different in the Iron Hills. The Dwarves there are more isolated; there are no Mannish settlements for many miles. And because of this…” He struggled to find the words. “There is a strain of prejudice in them, perhaps. They are not as open-minded as the Dwarves you have known.”

Dwalin’s response was swift: “Durin’s blood flows through her veins, the same as Dáin’s.” Hannelís looked at the tattooed Dwarf, his face dark with anger. “Hannelís can rule as well as he-- _better,_ even, given time to learn--”

“And time is what he means to give her,” countered Balin. “He has not stolen the crown by any stretch. He only wants to ensure safety and stability for Erebor while she grows into the fine queen we _all_ believe she will be.”

“He does not care for her!” Dwalin rose from his chair, looming over his brother. “He cares only for himself and his line. You know he’s brought his boy for a reason--he wants to remind everyone of the strong, _Dwarven_ heir _he_ has, to foment insurrection, to throw our _queen_ into disfavor--”

“Do not be ridiculous, brother. He _means_ for him to _marry_ her.”

Clearly, Balin intended this to be a comfort; Thorin’s presence in Erebor was, at least, not cause for rebellion. But Hannelís was not comforted. At once, she was on her feet, wheeling around to face him. “ _Marry_ me?” she cried in horror. “You can’t be serious.”

Dwalin looked murderous. “He would not dare suggest a marriage. Perhaps things are different in the Iron Hills,” he said, mocking Balin’s previous words, “and they have no qualms about marrying _children._ Hannelís is far too young to entertain such an idea--as is Dáin’s son, for that matter.”

Hannelís shared Dwalin’s obvious disgust. Dwarves did not wed until they had reached adulthood; they did not even become _betrothed_ until they came of age. Even for royals, this held true. In another life, Hannelís might have wed Fíli or Kíli, but that choice had been decades ahead of her. She did not feel at all ready to make such a decision now.

“She is _not_ too young,” pressed Balin. “Surely he does not mean for them to be formally betrothed, but if we came to a private, secret agreement, and waited to announce the betrothal until they have both come of age--”

“ _We_ ,” said Hannelís, furious. “It is _my_ choice, not _ours._ ”

“You are queen. No choice you make, be it private or public, will ever be wholly _yours_ again.” Balin was plainly struggling to be patient with her--with both of them. “ _Azbad…_ you have your people to think of. You must make the decision that is best for _them._ You must put them first, always.”

He turned to Dwalin. “I know you are trying to support her, brother. I know you believe you have her best interests at heart.” Dwalin opened his mouth to retort, but Balin held up a hand. “Please.”

With difficulty, his brother quieted. Balin looked between them. Once more, he sighed. “A betrothal to Dáin’s heir _is_ your best interest, _azbad._ Dáin has a claim of his own; we know that well enough, from our fears today. He could have stolen the throne outright, but he didn’t, out of loyalty and respect for your father’s memory. But we must ask: how far will that loyalty go? Will it wither, or grow? If you wed his son, you erase any future threat of rebellion from Dáin’s line. You unite the House of Durin, forever. It is the right strategic choice.”

Balin’s words hung heavy in the air. For a long time, the only sound was the fire crackling in the corner. _He is right._ But knowing that only made Hannelís resent him. She despised the soundness of it all, the logic, the _strategy._ It made her feel trapped and penned in. Like she had no choice. Like her life was not her own. It was a terrible feeling.

“He has only just arrived,” said Balin, gently. He moved to comfort her, to squeeze her shoulder or pull her into a hug, but Hannelís drew away. His hand fell back to his side. “You need not decide now, dear. Today has had enough excitement as it is. But it is important you know the choices yet ahead of you.”

“Fine.” Hannelís retreated again, closing the distance between herself and the door. “Then if it is only a _future_ problem, I will take my leave.”

She was not asking permission. Balin heard it in her voice, the queenly edge. One final time, he sighed, and gave her a kind smile. “Of course, _azbad._ ”

Her hand was on the doorknob when Dwalin spoke. “ _Azbad._ ” She glanced back. “Orcrist.”

She looked down--there it was, secured still at her hip. _Even as we speak of the future, he does not trust I will not forsake it._ She could not blame him. She fumbled with the ties that held it to her belt, and passed him the blade. He murmured his thanks, and bowed his head. Then she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannelís really dissed Thorin Stonehelm RIGHT out of the gate, and he was too gracious (and charming) to be mad about it. She has a petty streak that rivals her father’s.
> 
> S/o to Ellie (ohelrond) for being my #1 adoring fan and also, in this chapter, the Balin to my Dwalin. Together, we debated the political fate of Erebor and, well, it’s good content, so I put it in here.
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think, and thanks for reading!


	15. Chasdei Mahal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is May 2942, and the Dwarves of Ered Luin finally arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, lovelies, you’ll need to indulge me as I set the scene for a bit because we’re skipping time here. Roughly 6 months, to be exact. So first, I need to show y’all where we’re at re: the restoration of Erebor, introduce some new Dwarven characters, etc. Also, no one wants to read 6 months of Hannelís grieving.

The sky was gray and full of clouds, and it was much too cool for spring. There was a chill on the air, persistent in its bite, though it had dulled some since winter. Erebor was farther north than Ered Luin. The Men of Lake-town said it was normal, that the warmth would arrive eventually, even if it never stayed for long. The Dwarves of the Iron Hills, too, were accustomed to the crisper clime. But Hannelís had started to doubt summer would ever come again.

Little by little, the Lonely Mountain came alive under their hand. For months, Dwarves streamed in from the Iron Hills, ready to put themselves to work and restore Erebor to its former glory. Together, they repaired what Smaug had broken--they excavated collapsed tunnels, reinforced cracked columns, uncovered long-lost chambers. And the remains of those killed by dragon-fire, the bones so worn they might crumble to dust in one’s hand, were finally given proper burial. Tapestries were woven, mosaics were painted, gems were carved into glowing chandeliers. It was a wonder how far they had come.

The restoration of Dale went slower. Dáin did not approve of Hannelís’ agreement with the Men of Lake-town. He did not want to share his craftsmen, to say nothing of sharing them for free. Even more, he resented the presence of the refugees in the mountain. They were more mouths to feed, more bodies to clothe, a burden on him on his people. But the queen had given Bard her word, and so Dáin fulfilled her agreement--though the workers came unhappily, and took their sweet time in their toil.

In her stead, Dáin formed a royal council to aid in the kingdom’s affairs. One day, he assured her, she would take the first seat, but for now it was his, as regent. Next came the _adon mimunn,_ the master of finance. That seat was filled by Torsten, the same Dwarf who had helped Hannelís settle the Company’s debts with Lake-town and Mirkwood. Then the _adon milchama,_ the master of war, which went to a stern-faced general named Oren. Then the _shofet,_ who oversaw legal matters--that seat was given to a close advisor of Dáin’s, an auburn-haired Dwarrow with a truly impressive beard called Riva. Then the _adon avodah,_ the master of labor--mistress, rather. That went to Bara, a broad Dwarven lass who was easily the only Dwarf on the council under 150.

That left two positions for the Dwarves of Ered Luin, though Dáin would have filled them with his own folk if he could. “Fortunately for us,” Dwalin had said to her when the council was first created, “Dáin cannot change bloodlines.”

The final two seats followed an old offshoot of Durin’s line, descended from Borin, who was the younger brother of Dáin I, the father of Thrór. Borin’s eldest child, Farin, took on the mantle of _cohen,_ of priest. His daughter Dvora took the role of _brit,_ the Dwarf responsible for acting as ambassador to Erebor’s neighbors, fashioning treaties and keeping the peace. Dvora died without marrying, and so _brit_ passed to Farin’s second son, Gróin. And so _cohen_ passed from Farin to Fundin to Balin, and _brit_ from Dvora to Gróin to Glóin. By rights, _brit_ should have been Óin’s--but his heart lay in healing, and so his brother had accepted the duty in his place.

For now, Hannelís did not attend her council, which seemed strange to her, seeing as it was officially dubbed the _Queen’s_ Council and not the _Regent’s._ Dáin claimed this was the right move for now, as Hannelís apparently had much to learn and sitting in on the meetings would be too confusing for her. Instead, he arranged for her study under tutors of his choosing, though Dwalin pressed successfully for him to have some input in her lessons. In this way, the Company won small victories in the quiet struggle for power, so that Dáin Ironfoot and his supporters did not possess sole influence over Hannelís and the fledgling Kingdom under the Mountain.

And so, on that snowy May day, Hannelís found herself huddled in the library next to a dying fire, while her tutor snored beside her. His name was Reuel, and he was _meant_ to be teaching her about the history of Erebor’s trade relationships, but he was very old--and apparently, very tired. Still, Hannelís did her best to go on without him, though the endless tables of numbers detailing who gave whom what and what gold was paid or owed were giving her a headache. She was about to give up entirely when Jórunn appeared.

Ah, Jórunn. She was Hannelís’ lady, gifted to her by Dáin to be her attendant. She was Oren’s daughter, but luckily, she did not share the Dwarf-general’s harshness. She was kind in a no-nonsense way, which had proved helpful to Hannelís these past months. On those mornings when she still could not bear to face the world and buried herself under her covers, Jórunn would come and yank her blankets to the foot of the bed and pull her queen into the light. Sometimes, on darker days, Hannelís hated her. But mostly, she was grateful.

“ _Azbad,_ ” said Jórunn, quiet enough not to wake Reuel.

Hannelís twisted in her chair, a great yawn escaping before she could hold it back. “Yes?”

Jórunn stood in the doorway, rosy-cheeked from the cold. Her shoulders and hair were speckled in snow, a thick scarf around her neck. She was smiling. She looked excited, like whatever she was about to say would change everything for the better and delight her young queen. Hannelís sat up straighter, waiting for the news. “They’re here, _azbad._ From Ered Luin. Your kin have arrived.”

A grin leapt across Hannelís’ face, and she shot out of her seat. “Take me to them.” She did not have to ask twice--though more than once, Jórunn had to tell _her_ to slow down along the way. Apparently, it was unbecoming of the queen to run through the halls with abandon. It took every bit of self-control Hannelís had to slow to a walk.

“They are in Thráin’s old quarters, waiting for you.” Hannelís had arranged to have her grandparents’ chambers prepared in advance of Rivkís and Dís’ coming. She had given the order as soon as the raven had arrived, nearly six months before, with the news that they were on their way. It had been 172 years since last they saw Erebor. Hannelís wanted to make the Lonely Mountain everything they had dreamed and more.

Finally, they reached the wing of the mountain where Thráin and Rivkís had once spent the early years of their marriage, where her father and uncle and aunt had taken their first steps, toddling down the winding passageways. The door to the main chamber was open. When it came into view, Hannelís could not resist; she took off at full tilt, barreling through it.

“Oh!” cried Rivkís, pressing a hand to her heart. The old Dwarf-queen was bent with age, her braided beard pure white. Her hair was white and braided, too, though she covered it in an elaborately-twisted scarf of blue and gold. Some of the more traditional Dwarf-women did that, after they were wed--cover their hair, so that its beauty was for their husband or wife alone. Her grandmother had always been a pious Dwarrow.

It took Rivkís a moment to recover from the initial shock of Hannelís’ entrance, but when she did, her blue eyes watered. “Oh, my darling girl.”

 _Her eyes are like Abba’s, and Fíli’s._ She had known that forever, but it hit her differently now. She realized in a rush just how much she had missed those eyes.

Beside her grandmother was Dís, looking tired and travel-worn. Her raven-dark plaits were half undone, torn to pieces in the wind. Hannelís had always admired her aunt’s beard. Dís had long claimed it was her best feature. Every morning, she would condition it with lavender-scented oil and weave in rings of gold while she braided. It was all but gone now, cropped short in mourning. _For her sons._ She had not wanted them to go.

Hannelís could still remember the fight she and Thorin had waged, on the eve of their journey to the Shire. Dís had banished the children from partaking in the thunderous debate, but that had not stopped Hannelís and her cousins from pressing their ears to the door and listening as well as they could.

 _They are_ my _sons, Thorin. Mine!_

_They are heirs of Durin. You knew this day would come._

_This obsession has already claimed Abba, and Saba before him. It will not take my sons._

_Obsession?_ In that moment, Hannelís had been glad she was not in the room to witness her father’s anger. The edge in his voice was frightening enough. _It is our_ home, _Dís._

 _We_ have _a home._ You _have built us a home. We are happy here, brother. Why are you so intent on destroying that?_

In the end, Dís could not stop them from going. They were still children in her eyes, yes, but they were also Dwarves grown, and desperate to make their uncle proud. She tried, too, to keep Hannelís with her, home and safe, but Thorin would not hear it. She was _his_ daughter. The choice was his alone.

Hannelís wanted to run to her kin and embrace them, but before she could take another step, Dís murmured, “ _Azbad,_ ” and together, they bowed.

It threw her. They were her grandmother and aunt. _She_ should be deferring to _them._ Seeing them stooped before her felt unnatural and wrong. But then they were standing again, and it was Rivkís who cleared the distance first and took her granddaughter in her arms.

“Oh, dear one,” she cooed, pulling Hannelís’ head down to rest on her shoulder. The position was more than a little uncomfortable given how much taller Hannelís was, but she didn’t care. “If only he could see you now.” Whether Rivkís meant Thráin or Thorin or even Thrór, Hannelís did not know. After a moment, Rivkís released her and touched her cheek lightly. “Queenhood suits you.”

Hannelís did not believe her, but she smiled all the same. She took her grandmother’s hands in hers. “I’ve missed you so much, Safta.” Already, her voice was thick with tears, though she battled past them. She looked at Dís, who had yet to draw near. “Both of you. It’s been so difficult, being away from you for so long, after everything…”

A darkness passed over her aunt’s features, and the words died in her throat. Unspoken or not, both Dwarrows knew what she had meant to say. Rivkís squeezed her hands and went stony-faced, as though she were willing herself to be strong. “Take us to them, Lís. I need to see my son, _zichrono livracha._ ” _Of blessed memory._

“Imma,” said Dís, her voice still low, though there was a hint of sharpness to it now. “We only just got here.”

“I have already waited long enough,” came the old Dwarrow’s answer. That settled the matter.

And so, the three daughters of Durin made their way to the crypts buried deep within the mountain. At the end of the long chamber of tombs lay the entrance to _Hechal Ha-Uzbadim,_ the Hall of Kings. There, the first Kings under the Mountain had raised hundreds of near-identical stone vaults, making space for all the kings they were sure would follow. That was before dragon-fire had consumed their world. Most of the graves were empty. Hannelís wondered if the vast hall would ever be filled.

Hannelís led her kin to three vaults, laid side by side, the one in the middle slightly taller than the others. Khuzdul had been etched into the stone, the runes still as crisp and perfect as the day they had been carved on. _Here lies Thorin son of Thráin, King under the Mountain._ And on either side, _Fíli son of Víli_ and _Kíli son of Víli,_ both marked as a _Son of Durin._ Atop their tombs were a collection of rocks and totems, mementos left behind by mourners to honor the fallen.

Thorin had once told Hannelís why Dwarves left stones on graves. Men, he told her, left flowers. In Rohan, he had seen the great mounds of Edoras where ancient kings slept beneath a bed of wildflowers. _Simblemynë._ That was their name. Thorin had pressed his palm to the white-petalled earth and marveled at their beauty. But even such beauty could only ever be fleeting, for all living things must die, even flowers. But stones were not living. Stones could not die. And so they could remember the dead, even long after all else had withered away.

 _One by one, we pass from this world…but our memories live on, if there are those left to remember._ Her father had taught her that. It was a weighty responsibility, remembering. Sometimes, Hannelís thought she might still be crushed under the immensity of it. Still, there were days when all she wanted was to join her kin here, in these vaults of stone--days when she drowned under the grief and guilt that she alone remained. But she was learning to shoulder the burden of surviving.

It was as though Rivkís knew her thoughts. Her grandmother took her arm in hers and held her tight. “I thank the Smith every day that you did not also fall. _Baruch Mahal._ ” She squeezed and said it again: “ _Baruch Mahal._ ”

“ _Chasdei Mahal,_ ” answered Dís. She had yet to look away from her sons’ graves. _By the mercy of Mahal._ It was almost like _baruch Mahal, blessed be Mahal,_ but not quite. From the darkness in her voice, Hannelís heard the words differently. There was blame there. Thorin had led her sons to their deaths, but by Mahal’s mercy, Hannelís had been spared. Fleetingly, Hannelís wondered if Dís hated her brother.

 _No._ That was an unkind thought. Dís could hate what he did and yet love him. She was a mother grieving.

Rivkís released Hannelís, her hands disappearing into her pockets. As she did this, something in Dís unlocked, and she began to do the same. The two Dwarrows unearthed stones of their own, to lay upon the graves of their kin.

Hannelís’ hand went to the pouch at her belt where Kíli’s totem rested, half-forgotten in the excitement of her kin's arrival. She liked to keep it with her. She moved the leather belt from gown to gown, so that it was always there, at her side. Sometimes she stuck her fingers in the pouch and rubbed its smooth edges, feeling the curve of the Khuzdul runes. It comforted her.

Rivkís went first. A stone for Kíli, another for Fíli. The largest went to her son. It had clearly been carved and polished for the occasion, selected especially for him, her firstborn. She lingered before his grave, one hand tracing his name again and again, like she was memorizing the feel of the grooves or pressing them into her own flesh, just as Hannelís did with Kíli’s totem. _Innikh dê,_ the motion said. _Return to me._ But there was no returning from death.

Dís stepped forward, reaching over her mother to set a rock upon her brother’s grave. She spent a long time in front of Fíli, pressing her forehead against the cold stone of his vault, silent tears washing down her cheeks. Hannelís watched her aunt’s face contort in pain, and she wanted to look away, so great was her anguish.

At last, Dís moved to Kíli. Her hands trembled, and she gripped the edges of his tomb to steady herself. For the first time, her tears overtook her, and she came undone. Dís keened, her face turning up to the high stone ceiling, as though she could see straight through the mountain and into the heavens, into the face of Mahal himself. There were no words for her sorrow. There was only agony, sharp and unforgiving--wrenching grief, and hot rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “A voice is heard in Ramah: lamentation and bitter weeping. Rachel is weeping for her children. She refuses to be comforted, for her children are no more.” (Jeremiah 31:15)
> 
> Major Dís vibes in that verse. ANYWAY…Hannelís’ family has arrived. And you know who else has arrived from Ered Luin, don’t you? Gimli and Mrs. Glóin! Stay tuned for them soon. And hopefully less angst.
> 
> As best as I can tell, Dwarves come of age around 75, which I’m treating as a human equivalent of 18-ish. Dáin is 32 when he slays Azog at the Battle of Azanulbizar, which is considered an incredible feat for such a young Dwarf, but he can’t be a KID, so I’m assuming 32 is like…14/15. So in my interpretation of canon, the teenage years last DECADES. At 30/31, Hannelís is currently around 14, too, but she’ll start to age faster soon because she’s only half-Dwarf, so she’ll actually hit the human equivalent of 18 closer to 60. But since Dwarves “freeze” in their physical peak before rapidly aging toward the end of their lives (which is why most Dwarves appear to be middle-aged despite the disparity in their actual ages), Hannelís will hit her “freezing” point somewhere in the human 20s, since that’s the physical peak for humans. Anyway. So there’s that.
> 
> But the real point of discussing Dwarven ages here is that Dís still clearly thinks of her children as “kids” even though they’re technically of age; during the Quest for Erebor, Kíli is 77 and Fíli is 82. But I’m assuming that for Dwarves, that’s the human equivalent of like…19 (Kíli) and 21 (Fíli). They’re still REALLY young, so Dís is extra protective of them. They were (practically) babies!!!! I’m still sad about this!!
> 
> As always, hope y’all enjoy, and let me know your thoughts!


	16. Well-Matched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dwarves of Erebor spar with both weapons and words. Rivkís and Dáin play politics.

“I don’t think she likes Erebor,” said Hannelís, ducking just in time to evade Gimli’s blow.

The momentum of his thrust pulled both Gimli and his ax toward the ground, but he caught his balance in time to parry Hannelís’ answering blade. “Too much iron here for her?” the red-haired youth asked with a wink.

“Very funny,” said Thorin, and together he and Hannelís rounded on Gimli, forcing him back across the long arena.

Thorin’s weapon of choice was a great war-hammer, just like his father. The hammers were too unwieldy for Hannelís, and the same was true for the battle-axes she’d tried; she preferred thinner, smaller weapons, so that she could keep quick and light on her feet. Although she was taller than both of the Dwarves--she was officially taller than every Dwarf in Erebor, after her latest growth spurt--she was nowhere near as strong. She had to rely on her agility, if she had any hope of besting the others.

Gimli had arrived with his mother Mara from Ered Luin at the same time as Rivkís and Dís, much to his father Glóin’s delight. He was a broad Dwarf-lad, already sporting a far thicker beard than Thorin’s, despite the boys being of an age with each other. Where Thorin was all smiles and charm, Gimli was crass and sarcastic. Yet even with their differences, the young Dwarves had become fast friends.

A glance over his shoulder told Gimli he was nearing the wall; soon, he would be trapped. Desperate, he let loose a great bellow and threw himself directly in between Hannelís and Thorin, who were so surprised, they fell back and let him through. He somersaulted to safety, rolling to his feet and waving his ax high. “Here’s one Dwarf you won’t ensnare so easily!” he yelled with triumph, fleeing in the opposite direction.

“That’s my boy!” shouted Glóin from across the hall, where he was in the midst of sparring with Nori and Dwalin.

Hannelís and Thorin exchanged a glance, and she rolled her eyes. “Come on,” he said, nodding toward Gimli and flashing her a grin.

As they advanced on him once more, Hannelís continued: “I think…I think it reminds her too much of them. Fíli and Kíli.” Thorin looked at her, and his smile faded. “But is that silly of me? They never really lived here, _she_ did. I thought she would feel at home by now.”

“They didn’t live here, but they _died_ here,” he answered, just as he swung his hammer to meet Gimli’s ax midair. He glanced her way and shrugged. “That sort of cancels out everything else, doesn’t it?”

Hannelís knew he was right, but she sighed all the same. Dís had not visited _Hechal Ha-Uzbadim_ since that first day Rivkís insisted on going. Her grandmother made the journey below the mountain almost weekly, sometimes more. Hannelís joined her, every so often. By now, there was a veritable cairn atop her father’s grave--many of the stones were left there by other Dwarves from Ered Luin, but most were from Rivkís. But no matter how many times they invited her to join them, Dís always refused.

“Do _you_?” Thorin’s question was half a blow all its own. It threw her; she had no idea what he meant. He surmised as much from her frown. His smile returned, kinder this time. “Feel at home here, by now?”

He had to look away then--Gimli’s ax had won out over his hammer, and Thorin had to fix his grip before Gimli struck again. He leapt back when Gimli’s ax swung in an arc past his stomach--and for a moment, Hannelís winced, her hand going to her abdomen. She could imagine too easily what Gimli’s ax might feel like. Her wound was healed now, or about as healed as it ever would be. It still twinged from time to time. Óin said it was probably stray nerves that had connected wrong or had yet to stitch themselves back together.

But it wasn’t the nerves that were hurting now; it was only the memory of pain that bothered her, brought on by the way Gimli might have sliced Thorin open, if the other Dwarf wasn’t so quick. _No,_ that would not have happened, she told herself, not even if Thorin was too slow. The weapons they used for training were blunted. They could do damage, sure--but cut a Dwarf to shreds? Unlikely. But knowing that wasn’t enough to stop the image in her mind. Hannelís’ grip tightened on her training blade, and she shut her eyes, willing these dark thoughts to pass.

Gimli had noticed her grimace. When she opened her eyes again, his ax was at his side. “Are you all right, _azbad_?”

His question was too loud. Suddenly, Hannelís looked unhappy for another reason--Dwalin was upon them at once, from the complete opposite end of the arena. “What is it?” he asked, fluttering anxiously around her. “Are you hurt, _azbad_?”

Sometimes, Dwalin’s love was suffocating. Suffocating, and embarrassing. _I am a queen, not a helpless infant._ “I’m fine,” she said, her voice harsher than she intended. But she still needed to give a reason for why Gimli had thought something was wrong, so she continued, the lie coming easily: “I am just tired. I didn’t eat enough today. Here.” She handed her sword to Dwalin.

Dwalin took it and bowed. The others followed suit--everyone who was not actively sparring, of course--and with that, Hannelís left the arena. She wandered through the halls in the vague direction of her chambers. As she went, she found herself reflecting once more at how far Erebor had come in so little time.

It had not yet been a year since the Battle of Five Armies, but already the Lonely Mountain was a sight to see. A second wave of Dwarves had arrived from Ered Luin, and a third, bearing old relics and artworks in tow. The tapestries and portraits her father used to walk her past, testing her all the while, now lined the passageways leading to the throne room and decorated important chambers. Dáin’s portrait of his victory at the Battle of Azanulbizar hung in the council-chamber, above his seat. The regent was many things, but he was not _subtle._

Dale’s rebuilding, while still slow, had benefited with each new arrival from Ered Luin. It turned out that the Dwarves whose primary loyalty had always been to Thorin Oakenshield, rather than Dáin Ironfoot, were far more willing to carry out the wishes of their dead king’s daughter-- _shocking,_ really. By winter, a good number of Lake-town’s refugees would have new homes in Dale, taking pressure off of Erebor to provide their every need. It would be long before Dale was fully functional and ready for everyone, but it was well on its way, at least.

Hannelís was already well past the council-chamber when she heard Rivkís’ sharp voice through the open door: “There is _no_ excuse for why it has not been done, other than _your_ desire for power.”

Why her grandmother was angry in the council-chamber, Hannelís did not know--but she intended to find out. As quietly as she could, she tiptoed back toward the door. She held her breath and peeked through the gap, careful not to move the door even an inch.

Age had shrunk Rivkís, but she loomed large over Dáin now, her face a vision of fury. Dáin himself seemed to diminish before her wrath, recoiling further into his chair, though his features remained hard. “It is my duty as regent to ensure the queen is prepared, for _all_ aspects of her rule.” He raised a stubby finger and pointed it at the dowager-queen. “How dare you accuse me of seeking power, when I have uprooted my life, mine and the lives of my _people,_ for _this_ cause? She is not _ready,_ Riv--”

Rivkís’ hand shot forward and grasped his finger, twisting it hard. “How dare _you_ speak to me this way, pointing this nasty thing--” Dáin yelped and yanked his hand away, holding it close to his chest and rubbing the tortured digit. Her grandmother laughed at him. “She is not _ready,_ you say? How terrible of a regent _are_ you if she cannot make it through one ceremony?”

Hannelís had just asked herself _what_ ceremony they could possibly be talking about when Dáin answered for her: “If you want her to have a proper coronation, then you know what I need in return.”

“ _What you need,_ ” said Rivkís, barking again in laughter. “Yes, Balin has told me what you _need._ She is too _young_ for a betrothal, to say nothing of your son’s age. Give them _time_ to get to know one another, before you insist--”

“It is for her sake as well as my son’s that I insist so strongly,” Dáin countered, and for the first time he stood, head and shoulders above Rivkís. “You think my people _want_ to follow her, a--” His face contorted as he struggled to find the words. “A child--a _half-breed whelp,_ who might be half-mad, as well--you know what she did after the others died--”

 _Half-breed._ The word stuck in Hannelís’ heart, and suddenly she wished she had taken a different path back from the arena. She had known that Dwarf-human pairings did not occur in the Iron Hills--that there was bias, Balin said, toward the children borne of such unions. But to hear it from Dáin’s own lips, with such _malice…_ it shook her to the root.

“Is that what you think?” Rivkís’ face was a mix of shock and disgust. But as the surprise wore off, rage once again took its place. “She is the blood of Thorin Oakenshield, _zichrono livracha,_ your _king._ ” She spat the words at him. “She will be the rightful Queen under the Mountain until the day she dies, _ad shilosh me’ot shana._ ”

 _Until 300 years,_ was the literal translation. What she meant was, _may Hannelís live to be 300 years old._ Dwarves rarely lived that long, but it was considered a good, solid age, and so it was a traditional bracha shared at special occasions, on behalf of important Dwarves--like, perhaps, a queen. This was the first time Hannelís had heard it applied to her. Only it did not sound like a blessing, exactly; it sounded like a threat.

Rivkís’ blue eyes bore into Dáin, waiting for his response. The regent’s face had turned to stone. After a long, horrible moment, he muttered the answer her blessing demanded: “Amen.”

It was the only appropriate answer. To _not_ affirm the bracha would, in such a moment as this, be tantamount to treason. Dáin understood that. But Rivkís was not finished with him. “Do not forget yourself with me, cousin,” she warned, “and think you can debase our queen in my presence. You are descended from lesser princes, third sons with lordships gifted to them more out of pity than anything else. My husband was _king._ My _son_ was king, and my granddaughter reigns. I outrank you, and I will not hear the vile, hateful things you harbor in your heart.”

For a moment, Hannelís thought Dáin would respond with the same heat--but then he lowered himself into his seat, looking chastened. She could not be sure if it was an act, or if he truly felt ashamed for speaking to her grandmother, a Dwarf so senior to him, with such a loose and callous tongue.

He chose his next words with care: “Forgive me. I meant you no disrespect, nor any disrespect to the memory of our kin. I only intended to express the _overwhelming_ sentiment of my people, and that is--that a half-Dwarf is wholly unsuitable to rule the Lonely Mountain.” He met Rivkís’ eyes, and he actually sounded earnest as he continued, which sounded altogether _wrong_ to Hannelís. She had never heard Dáin sound _earnest_ once, not in all the months of knowing him. “But if she were to wed _my_ Thorin--a young Dwarf-lord my people know and _love_ \--I can sell the idea of her queenship to them. I can _make_ them accept her.”

Rivkís waved him away. “I have heard all this from Balin, and more. I will hear no more tonight.” She stroked her long, white beard and began moving toward the doorway. Hannelís shrunk back, out of sight. “But there _will_ be a coronation, and soon. If you want your people to accept her, as you so dearly _claim_ to want… _that_ is the first step. Crown her before _all_ of them--and _then,_ we may discuss the betrothal.”

Her grandmother was almost to the door, judging from her voice. Dáin did not respond--whether in assent or some attempt at deference, Hannelís could not know. Then Rivkís spoke once more: “Durin’s Day. That seems like a fine day for it, don’t you think? You’ll only have two months to prepare, but of course I can lend my help.”

The door jerked toward Hannelís--and before she could jump away or try to run off down the hall, out came Rivkís. Their eyes met, but the old Dwarf-queen made no other sign of having seen her. She shut the door firmly and took Hannelís by the arm, escorting her the rest of the way to her room in silence.

Hannelís was not sure what to expect when they arrived. Perhaps her grandmother would be angry that she had eavesdropped, or worried she had been wounded by Dáin’s words. Hannelís _was_ hurt, but more than anything, she felt foolish for expecting Dáin to be any different. Balin had warned her what he might think. She should have listened.

But instead of admonishing her or trying to wipe away Dáin’s cruelty, Rivkís turned to her and took her hands in hers, squeezing them tight. “Whatever is in my power to do for you, Lís--for you, and your happiness, and your crown--I will do. I am with you and for you, always.” Then she rose up on her toes and kissed her granddaughter’s cheek. “Sleep well, my darling girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, how do Dwarves know what nerves are? If they DON’T know, then how does Gimli say his ax is imbedded in that Uruk’s nervous system in Two Towers? Elves can keep their fancy magic…Dwarves have advanced medical knowledge, clearly. I mean, they don’t seem to have the TECHNICALLY to really DO anything with that knowledge, but…they HAVE the knowledge, at least?
> 
> Anyway, writing came a lot slower this week. I’ve been very #depressed and that’s made being productive…hard. Also, my mom tested positive for COVID! And I’m getting tested on Monday! So far, I feel fine, and she’s doing well, but BOY…that’s fun. Here’s to a refuah shlema, and hopefully adequate precaution on my dad’s end, because he’s here for Thanksgiving week and like, does not seem to be taking this seriously.
> 
> Hope y’all enjoyed, and I’ll try to get the next chapter up soon! At this point, I’m trying to speedrun the next 20-ish years, but I still have a few bases to cover before we can jump to T.A. 2969 (nice).
> 
> Shabbat shalom, y'all :)


	17. Durin's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dwarven new year has arrived in Erebor, and Hannelís is finally crowned.

_Durin’s Day. That seems like a fine like a fine day for it, don’t you think?_ For her coronation.

Hannelís stared at her reflection in the mirror, fidgeting with her skirts. She wore a gown of midnight blue, a dark, somewhat-faded shade woven from silk that caught the light. The bodice of the dress wrapped around her torso almost like a robe, creating a deep neckline before both sides were fastened together at her waist. Along the collar, sleeves, and hem were intricate designs of silver and gold, embroidered by Ori with care. A wide gold belt was wrapped around her middle, geometric patterns carved into the thin metal by an expert hand.

Rivkís had given her Thráin’s old signet ring, its gold face emblazoned with the ancient crest of Durin. And Dís had gifted her the sapphire pendant Víli gave her as a wedding present, nearly a century before. Hannelís’ hair still was not as long as it once was, and she still hated for anyone to braid it, but she had submitted to her aunt and grandmother’s hands. Her fingers passed over the plaited circle they had created, wrapping all the way around her head. It almost looked like she was wearing a crown already.

Jórunn knocked on the half-open door. “ _Azbad,_ ” she said with a quick bow, “it is nearly sundown.” She glanced at the two candles, waiting at a table beside the fire. “Would you like me to--”

“No,” said Hannelís with a smile that was perhaps too enthusiastic, but that could not be helped; she was nervous. She was about to be crowned in front of all her subjects and more--how could she _not_ be feeling at least a bit anxious? She took a deep breath to steady herself, and turned from the mirror, pressing down her skirts one last time. “No, I’d like to do it.”

Jórunn joined her at the table. Hannelís took a wooden splint from the mantle and stuck it in the fire. When it was aflame, she moved quickly to the candles, lighting one and then the other, before shaking the fire out and setting the smoking flint on the table.

Then she closed her eyes and waved her hands between the candles and her face in great circles, one, two, three times. And she pressed her hands to her face and spoke the bracha: “Baruch atah Mahal ha-Napach, Valareinu, asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel yom Durin.” _Blessed are you Mahal the Smith, our Vala, who has made us holy with his commandments and commands us to kindle the flames of Durin’s Day._

“Amen,” answered Jórunn, and when Hannelís opened her eyes, Jórunn’s hands were falling from her own face.

Hannelís’ smile felt more natural when she reached out and took her lady’s hand and squeezed. “Shanah tovah, Jórunn,” she said, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. “May it be a good year for us all.”

Jórunn grinned and squeezed her hand back. “Shanah tovah, _azbad._ ”

With the lighting of the candles, Durin’s Day was officially come. Today, Hannelís would be crowned queen. Of course, she had been queen since the moment Thorin drew his final breath. But now, she would be anointed before Mahal, set apart, marked as holy. It was a weighty thing, this.

 _Know before whom you stand._ That was what Balin had told her, when he first walked her through the ceremony weeks ago. “All of Erebor will bear witness to this moment,” he said, “but only one set of eyes matters.” He had jerked his chin skyward then, before fixing her once more in his sharp gaze. “It is not a crown that makes you queen, nor all the gold in this mountain. It is Mahal, _baruch sh’mo._ ” _Blessed be his name._

The candles lit, Jórunn knew what came next. “I will tell them you are nearly ready,” she said, moving to the door. “We will await you below.” One hand on the doorframe, she turned back to look at Hannelís. “Is there anything you would like _me_ to pray for, _azbad_?”

Hannelís laughed, a rush of nerves fluttering in her belly. “That I don’t fall on my face.”

Her lady smiled kindly and bowed before disappearing down the hall, shutting the door behind her. Now had come the time when the new Dwarf-king--or queen, rather--would pray, would stand before Mahal alone and make some petition. Hannelís gathered Orcrist’s sheath from atop her dresser, placing it in front of the glowing candles. This would be her altar of sorts.

Normally, the sword would be in its sheath--the sword, or whatever weapon the king or queen favored. But Dwalin still had not returned Orcrist to her, not in any permanent way. He worried, she knew--he saw her lingering sadness despite her attempts to hide it. He felt responsible for her.

Quietly, with his whole heart, and without ever being asked, he had stepped into that broken space Thorin left behind. It was a horrible thing for a Dwarfling to be without a father. Thorin had done the same once, for Fíli and Kíli, after Víli died. He had stepped into that space and loved them as his own, just as he loved Hannelís. And that was what Dwalin was trying to do--love her, and keep her safe, even if that meant keeping her safe from herself. She would have Orcrist for the ceremony, but only then. He was trying to give her his trust. She was trying to earn it.

 _Know before whom you stand._ With her makeshift altar in place, Hannelís straightened and planted her feet firmly beneath her. She took a deep breath, and before she was quite aware of what she was doing, she had placed her hands back over her eyes. “Shema, Khazad, Mahal Valareinu, Mahal echad.” _Hear, Dwarves: Mahal is our Vala, Mahal alone._

It was a simple prayer. It felt like the most natural thing to say, if she was going to pray. It was the first prayer she’d ever learned. She remembered being very little, huddled under the covers while the sunset painted the window in pinks and purples and blues. In Rohan, maybe, probably. And Thorin sat on the edge of the bed, and she repeated the words after him, one by one, every night. _And you will teach these words to your children, and recite them when you are at home and when you are on the way, and when you lie down to sleep and when you rise in the morning._

Hannelís paused. She could keep going; the prayer was long, and the words flowed easily. Yet she wanted this to be different. These were words she spoke every day, but today was not like any other day. Balin’s words sat heavy on her heart, to know before whom she stood, to keep Mahal in her mind. She did not want to say the wrong thing. But no one had taught her what the _right_ thing _was._

And then, in a rush, Hannelís was angry. She felt robbed. Over the past year, she might have grown used to the _idea_ of being _azbad,_ but she still knew almost nothing of ruling, nor how to _pray_ as one who ruled. She should not have needed to do this so soon. She felt robbed of her childhood, robbed of more time with her father, who should have been here to teach her.

“Why did you take him?” The question was out before she could stop it. “Why would you take them all, and leave me?” She sighed, and her eyes stung from the sudden tears. “I am not fit to rule. I have a regent who thinks as much. I may be a daughter of Durin, but he would call me mad, and--and _impure,_ not enough of a Dwarf to reign over him and his people. And--” She choked on what came next. She almost held it back, pushed it down, but it escaped, anyway. “And what if he’s right? What if I’m _not_ truly one of them, and what if I never will be?”

 _A half-breed._ That was what Dáin had called her, when he thought she could not hear. For two months, that was what she had heard whenever he spoke to her, no matter how cordial or warm he pretended to be. He said _azbad,_ and Hannelís heard _half-breed whelp._ “How many others have called me that and worse?” she whispered, not wanting to know the answer.

For the Dwarves of the Iron Hills, she feared she would never be enough. They would rather Dáin be King under the Mountain, but he could not claim the throne while Hannelís yet lived. And they would not leave Erebor, either, not with all the wealth and opportunity it offered. She felt doomed to be a hated queen. Even if she wed Thorin, she wondered if she would ever be truly accepted, or if they would simply look to him to rule instead.

Again, Hannelís sighed, willing the bitter tears to cease. “Is this really your will?” she prayed. “That they should die, and I should live? That I should rule over a people who would have preferred another?”

She would do it, if it was Mahal’s will. She only wished it was possible to be sure. She _wished_ Mahal could _tell_ her, here and now, that it was not a mistake--that _she,_ her crown, her blood, was not a mistake. But in the absence of Mahal’s voice, she would have to make do.

It was getting late, and her prayers needed ending. Hannelís tied Orcrist’s sheath to her belt, so that it hung low on her left hip. She left the candles burning; they would put themselves out in time. Beyond her chambers, the passageways were empty. Already, everyone was in the throne room, waiting for her.

Her footsteps reverberated throughout the stone halls. New kings were meant to take this walk alone. It was one last moment that was just for them, before they died to themselves and undertook the full, sacred duties of the kingship, from this moment until their deaths.

Dwalin was waiting for her outside the throne room. When he saw her, he drew to attention and bowed. Seeing the tattooed Dwarf in his fine velvet double, his beard finally long enough to be braided again, Hannelís’ stomach flipped with nerves. She wiped her palms on her skirts, before touching her braids with a light hand, to make sure they were still perfect. She looked to Dwalin with wide eyes, for confirmation that all was well.

“You look queenly,” he said, smiling. He handed her Orcrist, which she sheathed in silence. In his other hand, he held her crown. It had been made especially for her, a smaller and more delicate cut than the giant thing she’d been forced to wear at the funeral, Thrór’s crown of old. But it looked suitably Dwarvish, too, with a geometric pattern that matched the designs on her gown. Dwalin was right. She would certainly _look_ like a queen, regardless of whatever else Dáin and his Dwarves thought of her.

“Are you ready, _azbad_?” Dwalin held out a hand, but Hannelís knew not to take it. It was there to beckon her forward, not to guide her. As queen, she had to enter alone. She was still young, but she was also a pillar, the leader of her people.

Her skirts flowed out behind her as she stepped into view. The hall was vast and open, and there was little standing room to be found anywhere. The throne sat on the end of a long platform that soared high above the mountains of gold and silver and gems that made up Thrór’s treasure. Beyond that center stretch, other platforms sat scattered among the golden mountains, each filled to the brim with Dwarves.

Only a select few were here on this central platform with Hannelís--those of Thorin’s Company and their families, and Rivkís and Dís, to be sure, but also Dáin and his council, along with other representatives: Bard and his son, as well as Legolas, fulfilling this political duty on behalf of his father. The Elf looked distinctively uncomfortable to be surrounded by so many Dwarves, but at least Bard and his heir looked happy to see her. Gandalf and Bilbo had received courtesy invitations, though both were too far to travel to Erebor in time.

Balin waited for her beside the throne, prepared to do his priestly duty. He bore the religious garb of the Dwarves, a great white prayer shawl draped over his shoulders and head, half-covering his features in shadow. Wrapped around one arm and on his brow were the black leather phylacteries which held ancient Khuzdul texts, select verses from sacred stories and laws. To wear these things was to make oneself into a holy vessel. Here, now, Balin was ready to do Mahal’s work.

Hannelís processed down the platform, keenly aware of all the eyes on her. Fleetingly, she hoped Mahal would answer Jórunn’s prayers, and she would _not_ fall on her face. When she reached the throne, she turned to face those before her, and Dáin moved silently to her side. He did not look at her once, but that did not bother Hannelís--she made a point not to look at him, either.

Balin was already approaching, a pot of oil in his hand. Behind him, Dwalin followed with the crown. The elder son of Fundin bowed before Hannelís, and then it was her turn to kneel. She took special care not to let Orcrist clang on the hard stone. She rested her hand on the sheath, and for a moment remembered being in a very similar position almost a year ago to the day. She had held the same blade, knelt on the same cold floor. But things were different now. She had learned how to carry her grief without it destroying her.

“Mahal our Vala has chosen you, our queen,” intoned Balin, his words echoing throughout the vast chamber. He removed the lid from the clay pot and gestured for her to lower her head. The oil was poured in a circle on the top of her head, following the braids her aunt and grandmother had lovingly woven there. As he did this, Balin said, “May the spirit of Mahal come mightily upon you now, from this day and for all days, and may you rule long over his children.”

Her eyes still trained on the ground, Hannelís felt the crown settle firmly on her head. Still, she could not shake the fear that it would fall. And so she rose, as slowly and steadily as she could manage--and the crown stayed on, bless Mahal. In one swift movement, she sat on the throne and unsheathed Orcrist, laying it across her lap.

For the first time since the funeral, Hannelís listened as first Dwalin, and then all the rest, cried out: “Long live the queen!” _Long live the queen. Long live the queen._ Even Bard’s son joined in, though when he realized his father had not also said it, he looked rather sheepish. For his part, Dáin shouted the refrain with gusto, whether his heart was truly in it or not. Beside him, Thorin positively beamed. It was easier for Hannelís to imagine _he_ liked her, at least.

After the cries died down, Balin guided the Dwarves in the evening service for Durin’s Day. Already, the hard part was done. Hannelís felt herself relax into her throne, basking in the relief. She joined in with the familiar prayers and melodies, cherishing the feel of the Khuzdul on her tongue. She caught Rivkís’ gaze, and was rewarded with a proud smile. And after the service, when the feast was served, Dís had prepared a present of her own: Hannelís’ favorite honey-cake.

 _L’shanah haba’ah bahar haboded. Next year in the Lonely Mountain._ Those were the final words they sang, as the revelry stretched into the early hours of the morning. The night had been filled with ale and wine and dancing, and more roast chicken and honey-cake than she could stomach. Hannelís felt giddy as she finally crawled under the covers of her bed, even as the sun rose outside, drunk on the joy of the holiday.

 _L’shanah haba’ah bahar haboded._ After so many years, there was no more waiting, no more yearning. Durin’s Folk was home, _she_ was home, and their queen was finally crowned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I have COVID, after all.
> 
> Anyway, we're going to be skipping ahead a bit after this, so Hannelís can grow up some more/we can fill in some of the gap between The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings because no, I'm actually not going to be writing the full 77 years. ANYWAY (again), hope y'all enjoyed and as always, let me know your thoughts!


	18. Of Kisses and Wizards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is T.A. 2969, and it’s been 27 years since Hannelís’ coronation. Much has changed--in Erebor, and in our queen’s heart.

In time, the world around Erebor began to flourish. It took more than three years for Dale to be fully rebuilt, but when it was, it was a sight to see. It curved around the top of the Long Lake, nestled into the foothills of the Lonely Mountain, a dazzling city. And then it was time for Hannelís to return the favor and attend _Bard’s_ coronation--the Bowman was now Dale’s king, and he led his people with compassion and justice. Even after the Dwarves of Ered Luin completed their works in the city, the robust relationships forged between them and the Men of Dale remained, and trade was strong between Dale and the Lonely Mountain.

The region’s growing prosperity offered an attractive opportunity, and soon people from other Mannish settlements were streaming into the area, eager to build new lives in Dale--and, later, a reborn Lake-town. It brought Hannelís pride and joy to witness such a shift in the place that was, slowly but surely, becoming her home. Although her memories of death and dragon-fire would never truly leave her, it was a gift to watch this bold, new future unfold before her, all made possible by her father’s quest. More than anything, she wished he could have seen it.

There was beauty and plenty in the years that followed Hannelís’ coronation--but there was darkness, too. Only a handful of years passed before time took Rivkís from the planes of this world, bearing her back to the halls of their forefathers, to Mahal’s great forge in Mandos. Dís wept bitterly at her mother’s passing, and sheared her beard a second time. She almost returned to Ered Luin then, lamenting that Erebor was too full of death. But she remained at Hannelís’ side out of loyalty and love, and slowly her aunt began to smile again.

And Hannelís. She was growing into herself, into her role as queen, little by little. She did not know if she would ever feel fully capable, ever fully worthy of leading a people. But she was learning, and each day she grew a bit more sure and, hopefully, a bit more ready.

As she made her way into the arena that day, Hannelís wove her hair into one long, loose braid, before twisting it around itself and pinning it tight. That would do to keep it out of her face. She selected a blade from the rack and spun it in her hand, testing its balance. It would serve well enough--certainly no match for Orcrist, which almost felt like an extension of herself sometimes. She supposed the Elves did _some_ things well; she had never known a finer blade.

Hannelís gazed across the training hall, scouting out who might make a good partner. The pickings were sparse today. Many Dwarves had left the mountain, taking to the hills and even to the Long Lake, enjoying the unseasonably warm spring day. But Thorin was here, and Gimli. Like her sword, they would serve well enough.

But as she approached, she saw Thorin murmur something, and then he looked pointedly at Gimli, and the bushy-haired Dwarf nodded his agreement. “Well, I’m off,” announced Gimli, giving Thorin a great pat on the arm.

“Already?” asked Hannelís, dismayed. She always enjoyed sparring with the two of them.

Gimli shrugged vaguely. “Yeah, you know, I--” He cut off abruptly and made a face before grumbling something about needing to go, and after that he couldn’t leave the arena fast enough. His ax barely touched the rack before clattering to the floor, and he had to double back to pick it up. Then he was gone, his face beet red.

“That was weird,” said Hannelís, frowning at Thorin.

But the ginger Dwarf only shrugged at her, much the same as Gimli. “Yeah, but _he’s_ weird.” Hannelís nodded, accepting that. Then he jutted his chin out over his shoulder and grinned, cocking an eyebrow. “Shall we?”

Hannelís twirled her sword and smiled. “After you.”

Thorin took off for the opposite end of the arena. He was quick when he wanted to be; like most Dwarves, he was a strong sprinter, able to cover a great distance in a very short stretch of time. And woe to whoever tried to stop a sprinting Dwarf--it was like being struck by a boulder. Hannelís wasn’t as fast as Thorin, though she did have a bit more endurance, a useful gift from her mother's side.

The years had done Thorin well. The scraggly orange fuzz he’d sported when they first met had blossomed into a thick, full beard, which he preferred to keep short. While nowhere near as broad as Gimli, he had filled out, so that he was no longer quite so skinny. He was tall for a Dwarf, too, only a few inches shorter than Hannelís now.

And he was handsome in a confident, rugged way. Of late, Hannelís had begun to catch herself admiring him. Sometimes, she wondered whether his beard would feel itchy on her cheek, and how his muscles would feel pressed against her. What it would sound like for him to whisper her name…

“Lís?” called Thorin, pulling her out of her thoughts.

Hannelís felt her cheeks go hot, realizing in a rush that she had, yet again, been distracted contemplating her cousin’s good looks. He was now watching her with a curious smile, as though he could half-guess what she’d been thinking. That made her whole _face_ go hot. She fixed her stance and raised her sword. “I’m ready.”

Thorin’s smile turned positively devilish, and he gripped his hammer hard. “Brace yourself,” he warned, preparing to launch himself at her.

“Oh, please,” she answered, faking nonchalance, “I’m going to fucking destroy you.”

And then he was hurtling toward her, swinging his hammer at her middle. Hannelís dove to the side and threw out her blade in an arc, twisting back around to face him. With a clang, Thorin caught her sword with his hammer’s handle and thrust her backward. Hannelís dodged his next blow, and the one after that, but he kept pushing her farther back, closer to the arena’s entrance.

While he was winding his hammer for his next swing, Hannelís glanced over her shoulder--they were near enough to the racks now, and she had her eye on a shield. That would be better, one-on-one. Normally, she found shields too cumbersome, but without Gimli to take some of Thorin’s blows, Hannelís thought she’d never get a hit in at this rate.

His swing went low. Hannelís leapt over it, but not quite high enough; the toe of her boot caught on the handle, and then she was tumbling toward the floor. Somehow, she managed to turn her fall into a somersault, and then she was vaulting back to her feet and hooking her arm through the shield’s straps. She heard his hammer flying through the air before she turned--she spun in space and thrust her shield up to meet it. It made impact with a deafening sound, the sheer force sending shockwaves down her arm.

The shield made all the difference. Because _it_ held back his hammer, and not her sword-arm, Hannelís could make better use of her blade. And so she did--she thrust it between his arms, catching him completely off guard. If this was a real fight, she could have gone for a truer shot, one that drew blood or incapacitated her enemy. But she had no interest in maiming Thorin--just forcing _him_ onto the defense for once.

As she expected, Thorin leaned back, away from the blade. One of his hands dropped from his hammer, and that meant Hannelís could throw her whole weight into her shield and push his weapon off her. Between her shield and her sword, Hannelís pushed him farther and farther back, until he was nearly against the wall. Then his hammer collided with the side of her shield, sending it crashing to the floor, out of reach.

The force of the blow ripping her shield out of her arm stung horribly, and Hannelís could not help but wince from the pain. If Thorin had put much more strength behind it, he might have dislocated her shoulder. Seeing her grimace, he immediately lowered his hammer, his face full of concern. “Lís, are you all right? I--”

But Hannelís did not let the pain stop her. Nor would she hesitate; in one swift move, she brought the flat of her blade down on his hammer-hand, breaking his hold on his weapon. The hammer hit the ground hard, and in a flash, his concern was gone. He grabbed her still-extended wrist with one hand, and with the other he pried the hilt from her grasp. Then he twisted her around and pushed her against the wall, his forearm pressed into her collarbone to hold her in place.

They gazed at one another, breathing hard, and Thorin grinned, satisfied. His face was only inches from hers. Suddenly, Hannelís found that fact rather distracting. “I thought you said you were going to destroy me?”

“I did say that,” she breathed, keenly aware of the way his silver eyes bore into her, and the way his lips looked--well, like they were made for kissing, “and I will.” She had never kissed anyone before. But she wanted to kiss Thorin right now, very badly. “Just…maybe not today.”

She watched as his gaze drifted from her eyes down to _her_ lips. Something fluttered in her stomach, almost like nerves, but not quite the same. Then his lips parted, and he met her eyes again. _Mahal,_ how she wanted to kiss him. “Lís…” he whispered. That was all she needed to hear.

She closed the space between them, pressing her lips to his. At once he responded, with an urgent sort of gentleness, soft yet tinged with desire. His fingertips traced the shape of her jaw, his touch more delicate than she might have thought possible. And when his hands cupped her cheeks, pulling her deeper into the kiss, she sighed.

“What is this?” cried Dwalin, the anger in his voice jolting them out of their embrace.

Thorin moved away, not quite able to bring himself to look at the furious Dwarf. But in this moment, Dwalin seemed to only have eyes for Hannelís; he stalked up to her and took her by the arm and half-dragged her away, seething all the while. “Your regent has requested an audience. Jórunn said you would be here. _I’ll go get her,_ I said. _It’ll be painless,_ I thought, _it’s even on the way…_ ridiculous. To find _this._ ”

Only when they were one step into the hallway did Dwalin shoot a murderous gaze at Thorin and snarl, “I’ll be back to deal with you shortly.”

That was what broke Hannelís out of her shock. “No, you won’t,” she said, wrenching her arm from his grip. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

Dwalin growled and pushed her onward, leaving Thorin behind. “When you are older, _azbad,_ you will understand,” he told her, and then he muttered to himself, wrathful: “A Dwarf grown, kissing a _child._ To _think_ of it…”

“I’m _not_ a child,” she said, moving again beyond his grasp. They stood in the empty passageway, glaring at each other.

“Of course you’re a fucking child, you’re only 58, for the love of Mahal--”

“Do I _look_ like a child?” Hannelís knew the answer. “You cannot coddle me forever. I’m not stupid, Dwalin--in Dale, they come of age at, what, 18? 20? In Dwarven years, no, I’m not of age, but why should I measure by Dwarven years alone? On balance, I think I'm overdue.”

She could understand Dwalin’s perspective--almost. He wanted to protect her, except when it came to this, she did not _need_ protecting. When it came to _this,_ it was just annoying, and embarrassing--and honestly, it put a bit of a damper on the whole thing. Hannelís, for one, was thrilled she had finally kissed Thorin. She resented Dwalin for ruining the moment for her.

“You’re going to have to get used to the idea of me kissing,” she said, rolling her eyes when he shut his eyes and groaned. “There’s nothing shameful or wrong about it. I’m growing up, that’s all.”

“Fine,” said Dwalin tightly, and with that, he was once more shepherding her toward the council-room. “Then you will be delighted to learn of the very _grown-up_ task your regent has planned for you.”

“What does _that_ mean?” she asked, but Dwalin would only growl in return. At least they were not far.

When they arrived at the council-room, Hannelís was surprised to see a tall, gray figure seated at the long table, his back to them. On the other end sat Dáin in his usual spot, beneath his portrait. But Hannelís ignored him; in that moment, she had eyes only for the Wizard. “Gandalf?”

The Wizard had left the Lonely Mountain quickly and quietly in the aftermath of her father and cousins’ funeral, taking Bilbo with him. She didn’t even know if he knew what had happened to her, after--if he was familiar with the precise, dark circumstances that had led to Dáin being her regent, or if he perhaps had inferred some reason of his own. He had not been back in all these long years--so long, that Hannelís was now nearly twice the age she was when they first met.

Gandalf rose at her voice and turned, bowing low over his staff. “Your Grace, it is good to see you. It has been too long.”

She was not sure if she could agree, on either count. In truth, she was not entirely convinced Gandalf was trustworthy; while he _had_ been the one to encourage her father to form the Company to reclaim Erebor, he also was the one who changed sides and joined the Elves and Men when things got too tense. She didn’t know if she was happy to see him, or if she wished he had stayed away. So, rather than risk a lie, she remained silent.

Dáin, too, had risen and bowed to his queen. He crossed the length of the table, so that they all stood closely now. “ _Azbad,_ ” he said, “Gandalf has been generous enough to assist you in your training. You will travel with him to meet other rulers, and learn from them what you can.”

Hannelís pulled a face. “What?” The idea sounded ridiculous. “If you want me to learn from other rulers, why not just send me to speak with Bard, or the Elven-king? Why must I leave Erebor?”

Her first instinct was that Dáin wanted her out of the way, which couldn’t be good. She watched irritation flicker across her regent’s face before he managed to hide it. That only made her instinct feel _more_ right. “Because,” he answered, “the Bowman has nothing to teach you, it is not as though he has experience of his _own._ As for Mirkwood…” His features darkened. “You know Thranduil does not share anything willingly.”

So he had a good explanation, at least, for why she needed to _travel._ She still didn’t like the idea. She glanced between Dáin and Dwalin and Gandalf. “And how long would I be gone, exactly? My people are _here._ ”

“We will travel first to Rohan,” said Gandalf, plainly unimpressed by her lack of enthusiasm. Hannelís watched as he cast a glance in Dáin’s direction, as though he had assumed Hannelís and her regent were in better communication than this, and the queen had actually been _prepared_ for this sort of announcement.

At _Rohan,_ a disdainful scowl leapt to Dáin’s face before he could swallow it down. _Rohan,_ Hannelís imagined him thinking, _home of this fucking half-breed._ She had to be careful not to adopt a scowl of her own.

Gandalf looked back at her and continued: “It will take nearly two months to reach Edoras, the capital city. There, you will meet Thengel King, as well as his heir Théoden, who is newly arrived home from Gondor. I will also be collecting a friend of mine, who has been serving in Thengel’s court for some years now. From there, we make for Minas Tirith of Gondor, which is a mercifully shorter journey, only a few days’ ride. There, I will deposit my friend in the court of the steward, Ecthelion.”

“It sounds like you’re asking me to tag along while you do some errands,” said Hannelís dryly.

Beside her, Dwalin coughed one single laugh before a glare from Dáin silenced him. Hannelís could almost forgive him for his outburst earlier; she was grateful _someone_ laughed, at least. “And what are they supposed to teach me, Thengel and…Ecthelion?” she asked, pausing to recollect the steward’s name.

“To rule,” said Gandalf, a bit short with her. She didn’t seem to be making a good second impression on the Wizard, but then again, the same was true for him. Still a touch annoyed, he added, “I thought you would enjoy the opportunity to visit your mother’s homeland.”

Now it was Dáin’s turn to bark one awful laugh, as though the idea of Hannelís _wanting_ to know _anything_ about her _disgusting human mother_ was preposterous. It was for that reason, more than anything else, that Hannelís turned to the Wizard and said, “You’re right, I’d love that. When do we leave?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our baby queen is (basically) grown, but Dáin’s still going to hold onto power because the age of majority of Dwarves is 75 and he doesn’t care that Hannelís has aged faster because she’s a half-Dwarf. He doesn’t like half-Dwarves, anyway. He’ll keep on being regent as long as he can reasonably get away with it, thank you very much.
> 
> Also, I keep meaning to include more characters in these chapters, because we have so many classic folks around now, Dís and Glóin and Gimli, etc., but it’s hard! I’m not good at juggling many characters at once! So you could say I am…not looking forward to trying to write Fellowship shenanigans in, oh…10 or so chapters? Give me intense dialogue or action between 2, 3 people, and I’m HERE for it. Much more than that and I start forgetting certain people exist for hundreds of words at a time.
> 
> Anyway, I'm doing okay with COVID for now, mostly just extremely tired and I can't kick this cough. Make me feel better and leave a comment saying what you liked about the chapter/story so far? Thank youuu! :)


	19. Eagle of the Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew arrives in Edoras, and Hannelís meets Gandalf’s friend. Unfortunately, he’s hot.
> 
> Content warning for, well, sex.

They left early the next morning, the sky dappled in the pinks and reds of the foredawn: Hannelís, Gandalf, and Dwalin for good measure. Although she had begun to tire of the Dwarf’s overbearing tendencies of late, Hannelís was grateful for Dwalin’s presence on their journey. The Wizard was still a relative enigma to her, and did not laugh nearly often enough at her jests. Dwalin was good company, when he wasn’t ruining first kisses.

As for first kisses, Hannelís would miss Thorin while she was gone. She was glad to be free of Dáin for the time being, but she had grown fond of his son, and it seemed her fondness was reciprocated. That did not mean she was ready for _marriage,_ not by a long stretch. But kissing--that, she was ready for more of. When he farewelled her at the main gate, Thorin kissed her cheek and said he would think of her. Hannelís appreciated the thoughts, but she wished he had given her a proper kiss again before leaving for so long.

Of course, Thorin kissing her at the city-gate would have posed its own problem. In the arena, at least, they had been alone--until Dwalin’s interruption, that is. As much as Hannelís had enjoyed kissing Thorin, a not-small part of her dreaded the moment Dáin found out. It was an open secret in Erebor that he wanted the queen to wed his son. Discovering the two young Dwarves actually _liked_ each other would only give him more of a reason to push for the match. Hannelís had made it this far without Dáin wrangling a betrothal out of her. She liked her freedom. She wanted to hold onto it for a while longer.

When at last they beheld the yellow plains of Rohan in midsummer, Hannelís could not hide her smile. She remembered so little of her childhood here, but this--the rolling hills covered in tall grass like straw, stretching on until they dipped below the horizon--this, she remembered. The memory had been stored away in some far-off part of her, but now it sprang forth, so clear it might have been only yesterday. The sun-warmed air filled her lungs, and she took off on her horse, impatient to see more.

Soon, a great hill rose before them, higher than all the others, in a sweeping valley surrounded by snow-capped mountains. Surely, this was Edoras. A gate wrapped around the hill, shielding the many homes, shops, and more from whatever lay beyond. And atop it all stood a vast hall, its thatched roof gleaming like gold in the noontime light.

“The Golden Hall of Meduseld, your Grace,” said Gandalf, his mount pulling up beside hers. “The seat of the king.”

To reach the gate, they first passed through the barrows, the ancient graves bearing Rohan’s kings, each mound sprouting the same white flowers. Hannelís remembered her father telling her of this. _He was here once._ That comforted her. If her father had been a stranger here, so, too, could she. Her mind searched for the name he had given them, these kingly wildflowers. _Simblemynë._ Yes, that was what he called them.

The first thing Hannelís noticed about the people of Rohan was that they were _tall._ She had never seen Men so tall. She was used to feeling short _er_ around the Men of Dale, but even they were no match for this Rohirric breed. Most of the people she saw had at least a foot on Dwalin, who was himself taller than most Dwarves. Hannelís, meanwhile, fell somewhere between Dwalin and the Men of Rohan, an unhappy medium who didn’t fully fit on either end. In Erebor, she stood head and shoulders above the other Dwarves. But here, for the very first time in her life, Hannelís wished she was even taller.

And so, at long last, they had arrived in Edoras, and Gandalf wasted no time in making his introductions. Hannelís met the very tall king and his very tall son, and when that was done, Gandalf pulled her aside and introduced her to an even taller person: a ranger named Thorongil. This, it turned out, was Gandalf’s friend.

“It is an honor to meet you, your Grace,” he said, bowing before her. He was so handsome, Hannelís decided to offer him her hand, which he accepted and kissed. Still holding onto her, he met her gaze and said, “If I can be of service in any way, I trust you will let me know. I have been in Thengel’s court long; I like to think I know all its secrets by now.”

That evening, Thengel King held a great feast in honor of his heir’s twenty-first birthday. Théoden took after his father in both looks and bearing. He was not as tall as other lords present, but he carried himself as though he stood leagues above them all. He was blessed with the self-assurance of youth and station, and sported a wavy mane of golden hair that attracted the attention of every maiden in the city. His hair reminded Hannelís of Fíli, his swagger of Kíli.

Hannelís hovered near the dancing--not so close that she appeared to be pining for a partner, but close enough that she was firmly situated among the other revelers. She had already danced with a handful of the bolder horse-lords who dared to ask the visiting queen to join them for a spin around the hall. What she wanted to do _now_ was sleep. It had been a long day, filled with travel and important introductions that had left her rather exhausted.

“Are you enjoying the music, your Grace?”

It was Thorongil. He was leaning against the pillar next to Hannelís. She did not know when he had appeared; he seemed to come and go as he pleased, with little announcement either way.

“I am,” said Hannelís. “The Men of Rohan know good cheer.”

He nodded, and said no more. Even leaning, he was at least two heads taller than Hannelís, and easily the tallest person in the room. More than that, he _felt_ tall, in a way very unlike the young Rohirric prince. He exuded strength and nobility without effort, all legs and easy confidence. And he seemed older, somehow, even though he looked to be of an age with Théoden. Yet he felt wiser than his youth might suggest. It was appealing.

His features appealed to her, too, more than Théoden’s. His look was rougher and less polished. His dark hair fell around his shoulders, and the beginnings of a beard dusted his chin, highlighting the sharp planes of his jaw. It was all very Dwarf-like.

She had almost decided to abandon her plans to retire early and ask him to dance when Thorongil spoke again. “Forgive me if I am too forward, your Grace,” he began, “but I can think of a more enjoyable activity, if you have tired of the festivities.”

His tone suggested he had a very particular activity in mind. When Hannelís looked at him, Thorongil cocked an eyebrow. “It _is_ very forward, if I understand you correctly.” He was smirking now. “Do you make a habit of propositioning visiting royalty?”

“If I believe I can get away with it, yes,” he said at once. He gestured out into the booming hall. “As it so happens, I have propositioned many of these men and women in much the same way.”

“Men _and_ women?” Hannelís repeated, smiling now. “You desire the company of both?” He nodded. She had to admit, it was refreshing; she had thought such pairings rare in the world of Men. But perhaps Men were not quite as boring as she’d assumed. “And do they enjoy your company?”

“Indeed, many seek it again.”

Hannelís laughed. Far across the hall, she spied Gandalf speaking with the king. “Our friend would not be pleased.”

Thorongil glanced at the Wizard. “Do you think so? I rather thought that was his plan, in insisting on our introduction.”

“Our union, you mean?” she asked, laughing again. “Why would he want a queen to marry a ranger?”

Instantly, she regretted her words. She hoped she had not offended him. She had heard stories of the Rangers of the North; they were very brave, apparently. And he was right, in part--Gandalf _had_ seemed invested in their knowing each other. Thorongil was not of royal blood, but he had a lordly way about him. Still, _seeming_ like a lord was not _being_ a lord, and there was no escaping the fact that he was, by birth, beneath her. Not to mention the issue of Dáin, who might launch a full-blown rebellion if Hannelís married a non-Dwarf.

Thankfully, Thorongil was not offended by her words. “Are you betrothed?” he asked, undeterred.

“No.” _But my regent would like me to be._ She almost said the words, but bit her tongue. It would not do to spill political secrets casually, carelessly. “Are you?” she asked in jest, expecting the same answer. Betrothals were an official sort of thing; she could think of no reason why a ranger might be promised to another.

“No,” came the predicted response, followed by, “but my love is the fairest this Age has ever seen.”

“You are in love? And yet you are here, seeking the company of others?”

He grinned. “I do not seek them for love.”

“Of course,” laughed Hannelís. “Tell me about this love of yours, Thorongil.”

A brilliant smile set his dark features alight. “She is Elf-kind. When first I saw her, I thought I had walked into a dream. I believed I had found the lady Lúthien come again.”

“The lady Lúthien?”

“An Elf-maiden who lived long ago, when the world was still young. She gave her love to a mortal, Beren. She chose the fate of Men, and died with him.” He sounded sad, telling the story.

“And she was beautiful?”

“The most beautiful being to ever walk this earth.”

“And is your love truly like her? Does she too love a mortal?” He sounded so enchanted, Hannelís hoped his love was requited, for his sake.

Now Thorongil sighed. “She does not return my devotion. It has been some years since I saw her last. I was very young.”

“Are we not all very young in the eyes of the Elves?” she asked wryly.

“Indeed.” Again, he sighed, before turning to face her in full for the first time. “As you are not betrothed, my offer stands. If you are uninterested, I will seek the arms of another.”

“How romantic.”

Thorongil chuckled, and turned his gaze out into the crowded hall. Hannelís watched his eyes settle on the young prince, who had finally selected one of his many admirers to join in the dancing. She saw something flicker behind his eyes, a hunger. “You’re very interested in royals,” she observed.

“Those in power are attractive, yes. I have found that it is often the powerful who most want to be dominated,” he said with a mischievous grin.

It took Hannelís a moment to realize what he meant, and then she felt her cheeks grow hot. “I suppose I can see the appeal in that.”

“Are you expressing interest, then?” Thorongil’s grin widened, and he pulled her behind the pillar, away from Gandalf and the celebration. He rested a hand on her waist and leaned closer, but made no other move. He waited for her.

She sighed, trying in vain to wipe the smile from her face. He was charming, in a rugged, bold way. _And so tall_. She hadn’t known Men could be so tall. She _did_ desire him, though she suddenly felt very unable to articulate that. She wondered whether his lean figure was muscled beneath his plain doublet. She imagined his hands on her, rough and calloused against her skin. She watched his eyes wander down her, before returning to settle on her lips. It took everything in her not to kiss him right then.

Finally, she gave him his answer: “Yes.”

Thorongil whisked her down the nearest passageway, around a corner, until they were fully out of sight. Then he leaned down and kissed her. For a long while they remained there, resting against the wall. Thorongil’s kisses were not like Thorin’s, but the difference was not unwelcome. Thorin’s kiss had been sweeter, soft but determined, too, with the satisfaction that only came after a long, quiet yearning was ended. There was more of a hunger behind this kiss now, hunger paired with confident experience.

Gradually, they began to explore one another. Thorongil nibbled at her bottom lip as Hannelís wove her hands into his hair. His thumb lightly traced the curve of her breast over the fibers of her gown, and all the breath went out of her in a shiver. With one hand, she grasped his hips and pulled him against her tightly. Beneath his trousers, he was already hard, and they both moaned as they moved against each other.

Thorongil led her to a chamber, and there they locked themselves in an embrace the moment the door was shut. Soon, Hannelís was fidgeting with the ties on his doublet, and he in turn busied himself with unburdening her of her gown. His tunic gone, Hannelís could see that Thorongil was indeed strong; she found herself admiring his muscled arms and wondering about his skill in battle. For a moment, she was almost embarrassed by the way his eyes took her in. His fingers danced on her bare skin, following the curve of her neck, her collarbone, her waist. Then he was kissing her again, and she felt him pressed up against her. A slight ache was building between her legs. Mahal, how she wanted him.

He took his sweet time on the bed, bending his head to kiss every part of her, down and down until she could not stand it anymore. Clearly, he was relishing the build, but Hannelís wished he would hurry up. When he reached her scar, carved by Orcrist a lifetime ago, he paused. He had scars of his own, too, but none that looked quite so deep as this. He ran a finger along the arc of it, before drawing his face back up to hers.

She thought he might ask her about it--perhaps he thought she had survived a battle, or perhaps somehow, he suspected some version of the truth. But his eyes were asking a different question.

“Please, don’t stop,” she moaned. He’d already made her wait long enough. Mercifully, he did not make her wait any longer.

When it was over, they both lay there, breathing hard. It had not hurt, exactly. In fact, by the end, it felt rather good. Now, she felt thoroughly relaxed and thoroughly exhausted, and all she wanted to do was fall asleep right there. She let her eyes close…and not long after, there was the oddest sensation. Like something was pulling with her hair, or playing with it, or--

“I could teach you some Elven braids, if you like,” murmured Thorongil, his voice soft in her ear.

Hannelís twisted around, and saw a lock of her hair in his hands, already half-woven into one such braid. A jolt ran through her, and she yanked her hair back, out of his grasp. “No,” she stammered, completely taken aback.

Dwarves didn’t just _touch_ another Dwarf’s hair. That was an intimate thing, reserved for parents, or close kin, or-- _lovers._ No, Thorongil wasn’t her lover. She had just fucked him, sure, but that hardly made him her _lover._ And he certainly should _not_ be braiding her hair.

He looked about as taken aback as she _felt._ “I am sorry, your Grace,” he said, propping himself with one arm. To his credit, he genuinely seemed apologetic. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“No, it--it’s fine.” Hannelís was already out of bed, pulling on her underdress. Thorongil watched her, concerned. “I just--” It dawned on her that she probably looked ridiculous, running away minutes after bedding an extremely tall, terribly good-looking ranger, all because he…touched her hair. She pulled a face and tried again: “It’s a…cultural thing.”

“Oh.” At least Thorongil looked marginally less concerned now, but he also looked more _confused._

Hannelís was securing the ties on her gown. She fussed with her skirts, suddenly awkward. _Fuck it._ She didn’t _want_ to feel awkward--she was a _queen._ She could tell Thorongil the truth, and it wouldn’t be a big deal. He was a ranger; who would _he_ tell, and who would care?

She sighed. “I mean, it _is_ cultural, I guess, that Dwarves--you know, our hair is…important, and we don’t let just anybody touch it.” She winced when she said _you know,_ thinking it sounded all wrong because, of course, Thorongil _didn’t_ know. She powered through: “But really, _I_ don’t like _anyone_ touching my hair, because…my father and cousins were the only ones who ever braided my hair when I was young, and then they…died. And so I really just…I don’t like it.”

Thorongil nodded in a serious sort of way, like he understood, or was _trying_ to. “Then I shall not do it again. Thank you for telling me, your Grace.”

He smiled kindly. _I do think he means that._ So he was sweet, as well as good at kissing and…all the rest. He could be trouble, if Hannelís was not careful. _I must not like him_ too _much._

With a flutter of nerves, Hannelís returned the smile. She opened the door and slipped through, but before she closed it again, she turned and looked back at him. “Good night, Thorongil.”

If it was possible, his smiled warmed even more. “Good night, your Grace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truly, our queen is not a kid anymore. So, chapter title explanation: “Eagle of the Star” is what Thorongil means in Sindarin. Turns out Hannelís isn’t the only young royal Gandalf’s using his “travel around learning from various rulers to learn how to rule” technique on. Now, Hannelís and Aragorn can learn together--and keep each other company along the way.
> 
> Meanwhile, I’m still ~4 days from quarantine being over and I feel okay except for an annoying cough. A day WILL come when I can cuddle my geriatric cat without worrying about getting her sick…but it is not this day. But SOON.
> 
> Anyway, as always, let me know your thoughts!


	20. The Westfold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Thorongil's help, Hannelís learns more about her mother's family.

“He asked to see me again,” said Thorongil, smiling at the ceiling. “Told me to come to his chambers tonight.”

“Did he?” Hannelís pulled all of her hair over one shoulder. She lay on her belly, propped up on her elbows, running a comb through her tangles. The sheets were bunched together at the foot of the bed, their clothes scattered around the room, forgotten.

Thorongil rolled onto his stomach next to her and kissed her shoulder, a hand tracing light circles on her back. “Yes,” he answered, his lips moving softly against her skin, so faint it almost tickled. Actually, given the stubble scattered across his chin and cheeks, it _did_ tickle, but Hannelís did not mind.

She glanced back at him, and when he saw the curious look in her eyes, he buried his face in the curve of her waist. “Are you embarrassed?” she cried, delighted to see this side of him. She twisted to the side, trying to force him out of his hiding place. “You really like him, don’t you?”

Thorongil sighed and inched up the bed, until his face was close to hers. He hooked a finger under her chin and pulled her lips to his, kissing her long and deep. At first, Hannelís thought he aimed to distract her--and if he was leading where she thought, she would not mind the distraction. But then he pulled away and sighed. “He is the king’s son,” he said, as if that explained it all.

“And?” she pressed. “I thought you were not intimidated by royals.”

“Oh, no,” he laughed, “no, it’s…” He sighed once more. “I have served Thengel for many years, and he trusts me. I would not want him to think I meant him dishonor, in lying with his son. I would never want to give anyone cause for shame, but least of all one who has put such faith in me.”

Hannelís sighed, thinking yet again how _good_ Thorongil was. He was noble--not by birth, but in the way it mattered most: he was moral, and kind, and generous. _Extremely generous,_ she thought to herself, remembering how he had buried his face between her legs that morning until she peaked under his ministrations. Her cheeks went hot at the memory. She would miss Thorongil, she already knew. But he would be joining them in Minas Tirith, so she could enjoy him a while longer.

Thorongil’s lips turned up, seeing her blush. “What are you thinking about, your Grace?”

She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he pleased her. “How much I’ll miss Rohan,” she lied smoothly, though the pink in her cheeks betrayed her. He chuckled and kissed her again. After a moment, she pulled away and sighed. “I really will,” she insisted. “There’s still so much I haven’t seen, and it’s already been a month. Gandalf seems eager to move on soon.”

Thorongil considered that. “Well, we can solve that easily enough. What would you like to see?”

“The Westfold,” she said at once, wistful. “My mother was from there--or it’s where I was born, anyway.”

A shadow passed over his face--one of regret, or sadness. “Few dwell there now,” he said. “It is home to Helm’s Deep, and so there _are_ those who live near to it, who service the Hornburg and keep it ready for times of war. But Dunlending raiders ravaged the countryside years ago. Thengel rode out in force against them, and I with him. We drove them out…but it struck fear into the hearts of those who lived there, and most fled east, to safety.”

“Oh.” Something pulled at Hannelís’ heart, some sense of loss or anger. So her mother’s people had been driven from their homes, too. They _could_ return now--the Men of Dunland were gone, and the land was still Rohan’s--but they chose to stay away. It was the wrong choice, she thought. Their home was there, waiting for them. How could they abandon it?

“I could take you there,” Thorongil offered. “It is a beautiful land, perhaps even more now that much of the farmland has returned to its natural state. It is the true wild of Rohan, I think.”

“I’d like that,” she said, and she meant it. Hannelís _did_ want to see the Westfold, even if it was no longer the Westfold of her birth. But it would not be the same. Again, she sighed. “I was hoping--it sounds silly now, I don’t know if it was even possible before--but I wanted to talk to some people there, find some…records of my mother’s family, see whether I have any living kin.”

From the way Thorongil nodded, a little too slowly, Hannelís knew she had missed something. “That is…a lovely thought, your Grace.” Now _he_ heaved a sigh. “Unfortunately, no such records exist. The people of Rohan are not literate; theirs is an oral culture. They remember through story and song, rather than ink and scroll.” He paused, thinking, and then: “Do you know her family name?”

Truth be told, Hannelís was not sure, but she went with what she _did_ know. “She was called Hathilde, and her parents were Hána and Gerda.” Beyond that, she was lost. Of her grandparents, Thorin had always emphasized her grandfather, Hána--because he was her namesake, in part. Hannelís, _Hána-Lís,_ a perfect blend of Rohan and Erebor. Her father had always loved that about her name.

Thorongil gave her a queer look. “Your mother was Hathilde, daughter of Hána?”

“And Gerda,” she repeated, not wanting her grandmother to be forgotten. She had done that when she was little, too, when Thorin would mention Hána only. _We cannot forget her,_ she would insist, and Thorin would smile indulgently and kiss her head and say, _You’re right, chaim sheli, we must not forget her._

Thorongil could not hide his grin. “Your Grace…” He laughed and shook his head. “You _do_ have living kin, and you have _met_ them.” When she only stared, he laughed again, and recited with ease: “Hathilde, daughter of Hána, son of Holda, daughter of Willa, daughter of _Walda,_ the twelfth king of Rohan.”

Hannelís looked at him in wonder. “ _How_ do you know that?”

Thorongil gave a vague shrug. “It’s the House of Éorl. You pick it up, serving in the king’s court. The _point_ is, she was royal, your mother--a distant member of Thengel’s house, to be sure, but royal all the same.”

It made a certain sense to Hannelís. When Thorin met Hathilde, he was a dispossessed prince, but a prince nonetheless; he would not marry just _anyone._ Still, what royal would make such a match, when Thorin had no crown or throne to inherit? So he had found someone of noble birth, far enough down the line of succession that her parents had been willing to wed her to a wandering Dwarf-prince, who might one day grow into a king worthy of their daughter’s hand. He _had_ become a king, eventually, with a kingdom all his own. But she was already long dead by then, because plagues did not care about crowns or happy endings.

“How distant?” she asked, curious. “What is my relation to--say, Théoden?”

Ah, Théoden. Thorongil smiled at the sound of the prince’s name, and Hannelís had to laugh. He looked so _smitten,_ it was adorable. At last, they had come full circle in their conversation. “You would be…” Thorongil frowned, putting it together in his head. “Yes, you are fourth cousins.”

“And can you see a family resemblance?” she teased, nudging him with her elbow. “Do we kiss the same?”

Thorongil flushed, but he mustered up his dignity and said coolly, “Oh, I would never kiss and tell.”

“Very well,” she answered, “then how about that ride? To the Westfold, I mean.”

The land was both beautiful and wild, just as Thorongil had described. The Westfold opened up to them as they left the valley that was home to Edoras--they passed between two great hills, and crossed a shallow, rocky river, and there it lay: the rolling land of her birth, windswept and golden.

To the south, the White Mountains soared in the distance, dusted with snow even in the late summer. Hannelís sucked in the sweet green air and relished the feel of the wind in her hair, blowing her curls out behind her in a curtain. The yellow grass was dotted with rocks here, yet trees flourished in the harsh terrain, their branches permanently bent and twisted from the alpine winds that tumbled north from the mountains.

She could see how this land had appealed to her father, how he might have wanted to build a life here, for a time. It was stunning in a rugged way, its very existence a challenge that struck deep in her heart. She longed to master the earth beneath her feet, to seek out its every secret, to watch the seasons unfurl around her. She caught sight of a low waterfall, carving its way down a rocky hill, and spurred her horse on faster.

The waterfall fed a braided river, the rocks in its bed rubbed smooth from erosion. The water was glacier-clear, melted fresh from ice high in the mountains. Hannelís cupped it in her hands and drank deep, letting the chill wash over her. It tasted like Erebor, like home. She had not expected to miss the cold as much as she did.

Thorongil slid off his mount and tied the reins of both horses to a nearby tree. He spread out in the gray sand of the riverbank and closed his eyes, letting the sun warm him.

“This is incredible,” breathed Hannelís, and he hummed in response.

 _I could be happy here._ A pang of nostalgia hit her then, a longing for what her childhood might have been like, had life been kinder. Not that she did not love Erebor and Ered Luin--she _did,_ very much. But there was something about Rohan that had made a home in her heart, something that she would miss dearly when Gandalf deemed it time to leave.

“Lie with me,” murmured Thorongil, and she did. They let the sun warm them, the sun and their soft, familiar touches. And after he had carried her once more past a stirring, rolling peak and she lay in his arms, she considered again how much she would miss _him,_ and Rohan, and the freedom she felt here, after they were all gone. Thorongil was a good friend, and a fine companion. She expected his farewell would be the hardest.

It was only when the first gold-pink of sunset began painting the sky that Hannelís rose and pulled Thorongil to his feet. “Come,” she said with a wicked grin, “you must not keep the prince waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of just a sweet, light, informative chapter. I know Hannelís is traveling to learn, like, how to rule…but that's not fun to read. Rest assured, she IS learning…but she's doing other stuff, too. Maybe I'll have her talk to Ecthelion more in Minas Tirith, who knows. But she also deserves to chill and enjoy herself, you know?
> 
> Anyway, I'm feeling much better COVID-wise. Hope y'all enjoy, and please let me know your thoughts!


	21. The White City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew heads to Minas Tirith. Hannelís catches feelings--but not for Thorongil.

In the end, they spent six weeks in Rohan. Hannelís would miss the warmth of the hearth of Meduseld, and the way the voices grew as the fires waned on a cool summer night, with the drinking songs continuing until the very last of the flames had died out. So, too, would she miss the endless rolling hills under a gilded sky, the yellow grasses swaying in the breeze.

She would even miss Thengel King, though she often felt he took himself far too seriously. But sometimes, as the sun set upon another day, she could see the weight of his duty roll off his shoulders as he joined his court for a tankard of ale, sitting among them as their friend as well as their king. He could wear both the heavy, noble mantle of his lordship _and_ the unhurried, kindly air of his folk equally well. He could have both--his crown _and_ easy camaraderie, his throne _and_ moments where he was almost just a Man of Rohan. Hannelís loved that.

It was with that sort of folksy, familiar kindness that he farewelled them, Hannelís and Dwalin and Gandalf and even Thorongil. “You are welcome here anytime, cousin,” said Thengel to her, a smile setting his golden features alight. “It has been a joy, seeing such far-flung kin come home.”

“You have been too kind, your Grace. _Cousin,_ ” she corrected herself, to the king’s great pleasure. “Thank you for your hospitality. I shall not forget it. And if ever you venture north…”

“It would be an honor to see the Lonely Mountain,” he said, his smile widening. “You describe it so beautifully.”

Now Thengel turned to Thorongil, and beside the king his son straightened, staring down the handsome young ranger. Staring _up_ at him, rather; Théoden was shorter than Thorongil, yet his royal air always seemed to give him an extra bit of height, Hannelís thought. Briefly, she considered that apart from Dwalin, she was the shortest person in the hall. That made her miss Erebor. It would be nice to feel tall again.

“I regret losing your service,” said the king, and it looked like he meant it. “The Golden Hall will shine just a bit less brightly without you here, Eagle-Star. Must you truly leave us?”

For the slightest moment, Thorongil winced regretfully, before he managed to hide his emotion behind a noble veneer. “Your Grace, I cannot thank you enough for the trust you have placed in me, and I will always carry with me a great love for Rohan and the House of Éorl.”

At that last addition, with his mention of Thengel’s line, Théoden stirred. The corners of his lips pulled up in a smirk--but there was affection in his look, too, behind the satisfaction. “But Gondor calls,” he said, his voice deeper and richer than one might expect, given his youth.

Thorongil met the prince’s eyes and dipped his head. “Yes, my lord. Gondor calls.”

The words were simple, but final. It was true, even it was not the whole truth. Hannelís knew that it had always been Gandalf’s intention to spirit Thorongil out of Rohan, to have him join them when they made for Minas Tirith. But during their time in Edoras, word had reached the Wizard of trouble in Gondor. Steward Ecthelion sought aid in the fight against Mordor. These were dark times for Gondor. A dark figure of old had returned, plaguing the land as he grew in strength. And the steward’s seat of Minas Tirith lay perilously close to Mordor.

Dwalin was not pleased to be venturing into known peril, but if Hannelís was honest with herself, it thrilled her. For Erebor, nearly thirty years had passed in peace--a tense peace, to be sure, thanks to a rotten regent who would rather have the throne for himself. Hannelís did not want Erebor’s peace to end, not by any stretch…but she would not mind the opportunity to wield Orcrist in battle somewhere else.

And so, the plains of Rohan rolled into the distance behind them as they journeyed southeast along the White Mountains. It had taken them almost two months to travel from Erebor to Edoras, but the distance between Edoras and Minas Tirith was blessedly shorter. It was less than a week when they beheld the White City, built into the end of the mountains, the vast expanse of the Pelennor at its feet.

The city of Minas Tirith was unlike anything Hannelís had ever seen. It was a walled city with seven levels, each curving in a great circle out from the mountain and into the Pelennor. With each level, the circles grew smaller, culminating in the Citadel at its summit. A long parapet extended out from that seventh level, cutting through the lower circles and looming over the city. Every wall, every structure was carved from the same white stone. In the noontime sun, the city was blinding.

Thorongil pulled his horse to a halt when Minas Tirith first came into view. Hannelís slowed and turned back toward him, wondering why he had stopped. The ranger gazed at the city, a strange look crossing over his features. There was some deep emotion there, behind his eyes. It meant something to him, this city of Men, though she could not guess what. Then, as soon as it came, the trance was broken, and he met her gaze and grinned, and took off after Gandalf and Dwalin.

They rode up the levels one by one, passing through tunnels and past low stone walls looking out at the field below. By the time they reached the top, Hannelís did not want to look down anymore. For the first time in her life, she was unnerved from the height.

Climb endless stairs and walk countless passageways without any railings beneath the Lonely Mountain--fine, that felt normal. But stand atop a soaring city in the open air with the wind whistling by and the ground one thousand feet below? It was inviting catastrophe. When the doors of the Citadel closed behind them, Hannelís breathed a sigh of relief. At least within these walls, she felt sure she would not accidentally tumble to her death.

Steward Ecthelion was old, easily twenty years older than Thengel King, though age had done nothing to lessen his considerable stature. He seemed to Hannelís a proud man, proud and noble and shrewd. There was a formality to him, and to the whole court of Minas Tirith, that Thengel and Edoras had lacked. A formality, and a coldness. The longer they were in Gondor, the more Hannelís found herself pining for the glowing hearth of Meduseld, and the warm, keen hospitality of Rohan.

The Steward of Gondor had a son, a dark, surly man named Denethor. Unlike the Men of Rohan and Dale, the Men of Gondor did not wear beards, which Hannelís thought a terrible shame. With a proper beard, Denethor might have been half-handsome, but with a shaven face there was no hiding his sullen demeanor. He perpetually looked like he was smelling something foul, and the only time his mood seemed to lighten was when he was around Finduilas, his betrothed.

Hannelís understood his affection for her, even if she could not understand anything else about the steward-to-be. Finduilas was a tall, beautiful woman from Dol Amroth, a seaside city to the south. Her raven hair cascaded down her back like a moonlit waterfall, and she scented it with rose oil, so that whenever she walked past Hannelís, it was like she had stepped into a garden. She was young, almost still in her girlhood, easily half Denethor’s age or even less. Her smiles came easily, bright as the mountain-fresh air of Erebor in snow. Her laughter rang through the air like bells. Hannelís loved it so much, she made Finduilas laugh as often as she could.

“You ought to be careful, your Grace,” said Thorongil one evening, fastening his trousers as he prepared to return to his chamber. Here, he shared a room with other young soldiers, and they had noted his absence the previous night. He was still forming his reputation in Minas Tirith, and he was eager to avoid rumors. So, to ward off suspicion, he would need to sleep in his own bed from now on.

Hannelís stretched luxuriously before pulling the quilted blanket up to her neck. “Careful how?” she asked, swallowing a yawn.

He pulled his tunic over his head and gave her a pointed look. “It would not do for you to like Denethor’s betrothed _too_ much.”

“What do you mean, _too_ much?” She scooted up in bed, frowning. “She’s good company, there’s nothing untoward about it.”

“ _I’m_ good company,” he said, leaning down to kiss her before he sat on the edge of the bed to tug on his boots. “ _She_ is the wife-to-be of the future Steward of Gondor. The Men of this land are not as open-minded as you may be accustomed to.”

“Thorongil,” she protested. He turned to her, unmoved by her bewilderment. “I don’t--” she started, but stopped when he arched an eyebrow. “You think I… _like_ her, like I’m _attracted_ to her, that’s what you’re saying?”

“That is certainly what it _looks_ like.” Boots donned, he stood and faced her in full. “You might have told me you desire women; there is no judgment from me, you know.”

True, Thorongil was not one to judge these matters. He had openly admitted, in their very first conversation, to lying with those of all genders. But Hannelís had not sought to conceal _anything._ She had taken great comfort in growing close to Thorongil, in confiding in him, in trusting him. He _was_ good company, in more ways than one. Without her fully realizing it, he had become a very close friend. Perhaps that meant he had recognized something in her, before she had even recognized it herself.

She thought about Finduilas--about her sweet smiles and sweeter laughter, about the way Hannelís’ belly had fluttered that one time Finduilas had taken her hand and pulled her down the sweeping parapet atop the seventh circle of the city, to gaze out at the flowering of the Pelennor. It was a beautiful view, despite her fear at being so close to the edge. But even more beautiful, Hannelís thought, was the look of wonder in Finduilas’ eyes as she took in the land before her. The wind had blown then, and the lady’s hair had flown out in a wave, and their world turned rosy once more.

“Damn,” she murmured. Her hand flew to her cheek, where already she could feel the heat creeping in from the memory. She met Thorongil’s gaze and sighed. “I think you’re right.” She groaned, wincing. “Why is she so beautiful?”

Thorongil grinned, unable to hold back a laugh. “She _is_ beautiful,” he agreed, “and kind, and full of life. I can see the appeal, your Grace. But I think it wise she remain…” He trailed off, allowing Hannelís to finish the thought.

“A friend, yes. You’re right.” Again, she sighed, settling back into the pillows. A second yawn escaped her, longer this time. “Good night, Thorongil. Sleep well.”

Thorongil dipped his head and stepped out the door. “And you, your Grace.” As the door closed quietly, she heard his last words drift back to her in the dark: “And may your dreams be sweet.”

A smile pulled at her lips, and Hannelís sighed, drifting to sleep with visions of Finduilas swirling in her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannelís and Thorongil are bi best friends and we love that for them.
> 
> Sorry for the late update, it's been a #depressed week, so the writing's been slow. Thanks for the new bookmarks and kudos, and as always, please comment to let me know your thoughts! :)


	22. Of Swans and Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the boys are away, the girls will play. (Or, rather: when the men go to do battle with some rowdy Orcs, the women finally get some time to themselves--for better or for worse.)

Time passed quickly in Minas Tirith. Hannelís found herself enjoying Gondor more than expected, and Finduilas was largely to thank for that. She took Hannelís on tours of the city when she was not working with the steward or studying Mannish history with Gandalf. Seeing the world through Finduilas’ eyes was refreshing. She could see the good in everyone, and she always had a sweet word to lighten Hannelís’ heart.

But Hannelís had not forgotten Thorongil’s advice. She took care not to be alone with Finduilas, to not be too affectionate, to not grow _too_ close. And so she kept her distance, doing her best to think of the beautiful, gentle, glowing lady as _only_ her friend. And that worked well, for a while.

The morning dawned with news of an attack from Mordor in the night. Orcs had besieged the soldiers stationed in the western half of Osgiliath, seeking as they often did to claim the whole ruined city for their own. Ecthelion sent a sizable force to drive them off, and both Thorongil and Denethor rode with him. In her heart, Hannelís wanted to join them--but in Mannish cultures, the women rarely fought, and Ecthelion would not hear a foreign queen’s request to do battle. He did, however, permit Dwalin to fight in her stead. And so, Hannelís was left alone in the White City, with only the Wizard for company. And Gandalf was not much for company.

It took three days for her defenses to break down, for her to decide late one night, while the rest of Minas Tirith slumbered around her, to seek out Finduilas. For three days, she went through all the reasons _not_ to as she tossed in bed.

She knew she liked Finduilas _too_ much, more than she should, and so she should be careful around her. She must not say too much, presume too much--even though it seemed, sometimes, that Finduilas might be overly fond of her, too. It was better, safer to stay away. But her bed was cold without Thorongil, and she was, in truth, lonely for female companionship.

And so, on the fourth day, Hannelís found Finduilas bent over her embroidery hoop in the gardens near the Houses of Healing. The young lady sat on a bench, her raven hair thrown over one shoulder. Hannelís watched as her brow knit together and she bit her lip in focus. The embroidery was giving her a hard time of it, apparently. When the stitch came undone in her hand, Finduilas sighed and frowned, and Hannelís could not wait another instant. She did not want Finduilas to be unhappy for any reason.

“Good morning, my lady.”

Finduilas’ head shot up, and at once her needlework was forgotten. She set the embroidery hoop on the bench beside her and jumped to her feet, curtsying low before the Dwarf-queen. “Good morning, your Grace.” As she dipped her head, her eyes met Hannelís’ before darting back down again.

Hannelís sat on the bench while Finduilas gathered up her hoop once more. “What are you making?”

“Oh,” said Finduilas, smiling shyly, “it’s nothing. A token, for my sister’s daughter. She was born in the spring.”

Hannelís grinned, leaning closer to see. “That’s wonderful. May I see?”

When Finduilas shifted, a lock of her long hair fell forward, and Hannelís was rewarded with a wave of rose. She held up her hoop, inviting Hannelís’ inspection. A length of cerulean linen was stretched over the hoop, and silver thread was looped through the needle. So far, Finduilas had fashioned the shape of a swan, its long neck curving backward luxuriously. Atop the swan’s head in gold thread was a crown. The metallic threads stood out brilliantly against the dark blue of the fabric. It was elegant work.

Hannelís could not keep her smile from growing. “It is beautiful, my lady,” she said, and she meant it.

“I can’t get the texture of the feathers right,” replied Finduilas, her brow pulling together once more. She ran her fingers over the tiny holes where she’d pulled out her failed stitch, just before Hannelís greeted her. “I’m rotten with fishbone stitches, I can never do them properly. And they would be _perfect_ for the wings, and I _want_ it to be perfect…”

She trailed off with a sigh. Hannelís wasn’t sure what to say. She knew nothing of embroidery; Thorin had taught her about swords, not needles. Dori and Ori were skilled at this sort of thing; they had launched a successful tailor business that testified to that fact. At last, Hannelís asked, “Why a swan? Does she like them, your niece?”

Instantly, she felt embarrassed. It was a stupid question--Finduilas’ niece was only a few months old; it was unlikely she knew what swans even _were,_ let alone have a set opinion about them. But Finduilas only smiled. “She will one day, I’m sure. Swans are the symbol of our house, of Dol Amroth. We use their likeness everywhere in the city, they’re on our crest, on our archways--and we have dozens that swim in the fountains in the marketplace.”

Hannelís could hear the longing in Finduilas’ voice. “Do you miss it? Dol Amroth?”

“Very much,” she said with a nod. From where they sat in the gardens of the sixth circle, they could only gaze out at the white walls surrounding the upper levels of the city, a sliver of sky resting above them. Yet when Finduilas gazed out, it was with a far-off look in her eyes, as though she was not seeing the walls or the sky, or any part of Minas Tirith. Hannelís recognized the expression. It was a look her father had had many times, when speaking of Erebor. It was clear Finduilas was picturing home.

When Finduilas met her gaze, there was so much longing there, Hannelís could almost imagine it was reserved for her alone. Her stomach fluttered with nerves, and suddenly she was wondering what it would feel like to kiss her. Her skin was so smooth, her lips so soft. It took much effort for Hannelís to look away from her lips, and back to her eyes. “What do you love most about it?”

Finduilas sighed in a wistful way, the hint of a smile returning. “The sea,” she breathed, without hesitation. “The way the waves beat against the shore, the feel of the breeze from the high cliffs…” She closed her eyes, as though she could feel that same wind now. She looked so beautiful, so peaceful, it took everything in Hannelís not to lean forward and kiss her right then. Finally, she opened her eyes. “It’s everything. It’s home.”

Hannelís understood. “That sounds lovely, my lady.”

Finduilas nodded and sighed again, and for a moment her attention returned to the hoop in her hands. Hannelís watched as she attempted the same stitch again. To her untrained eye, it looked pretty enough--though of course, she did not know what it was _meant_ to look like. But halfway through, Finduilas stopped and heaved a great sigh. “It’s not _working,_ ” she said, frustration creeping into her voice. “I don’t know what I’m doing _wrong._ ”

Hannelís hated to see Finduilas be so hard on herself. “My lady,” she began, and then paused, swallowing the next words. Finduilas met her eyes, waiting for her to continue. But all of a sudden, Hannelís was afraid she would make Finduilas feel worse. She took a deep breath--and then slowly, while her stomach flipped in her gut, she set her hand on Finduilas’. “It does not _need_ to be perfect. Your niece will love it because you made it for her. She’ll love it because…because whenever she looks at it, she will think of you. It _is_ a perfect gift, truly--fishbone stitches or not.”

Finduilas stared at her hand on hers for a long moment, and a jolt ran through Hannelís. It was too forward, that must be it--Hannelís had presumed too much, had been _too_ familiar, and now she’d ruined everything. But before she could move her hand away, Finduilas looked up at her again, and wove her fingers through Hannelís’. “You are too kind, your Grace,” she said with a squeeze.

Hannelís could not stop the grin that spread across her face now. Thorongil was right, she thought as her stomach fluttered once more; she _did_ like Finduilas too much. A light breeze whirled past them, and Hannelís sighed as her world came alive again with the smell of roses. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, leaning into the scent…

“Your Grace.” Finduilas jerked Hannelís out of her reverie. The young lady’s face had gone pink. She ducked her head and pulled her hand back, and then she was standing and moving away.

Hannelís stood, too, mortified. She hadn’t been trying to kiss her, not really--that was exactly what she had promised herself she _wouldn’t_ do, when she set out to find Finduilas this morning. She had only forgotten herself for a moment…but it seems a moment was enough to ruin it all, anyway. “Forgive me, my lady,” she began, but Finduilas spoke over her.

“Please, I am the one who should apologize, your Grace,” said Finduilas, casting a wide glance around to confirm they were alone. They were--or at least, as alone as they could expect to be in public inside a densely-packed walled city. “I…have a former engagement,” she continued, stumbling over the words. “You must excuse me.”

It took a moment for Hannelís to realize Finduilas was asking for her leave to go. Once that dawned on her, she hastened to give it: “Of course, my lady, please--”

“But I would like to continue our conversation,” she cut in, the blush creeping up her cheeks once more. _Conversation._ It was not much of a conversation. They were getting to know each other, yes, but more than that, they were dancing around one another--or that was how it seemed to Hannelís.

“Perhaps tonight,” said Finduilas, as she drifted away toward the ramp that led down to the fifth level, walking backward as though she did not want to tear her gaze from Hannelís. “I could meet you in your chamber.”

Her tone was half a question. _May I come to your chamber?_ That was what Hannelís heard. “I would like that, my lady,” she said, watching her go. With one last smile, Finduilas dipped her head and was gone.

 _Tonight._ The promise of it had her stomach in knots for the rest of the day. She could barely focus when she met Gandalf in the city’s ancient library to pore over the annals of the kings and rulers of Gondor. In fact, she _couldn’t_ focus, and eventually the Wizard dismissed her with an irritated wave. And so Hannelís wandered the lower levels until at last the sun grew low on the horizon, and then she could not reach her chamber fast enough. She perched on the windowsill, watching the last rays of sun vanish in purple-pink splendor. She had just spotted Durin’s Crown twinkling in the night sky when a knock came at the door.

Hannelís cleared the distance at once, and then Finduilas was there, her raven hair glowing in the moonlight. _She is so beautiful._ She curtsied and stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. Then she turned and gave a nervous smile. “You had a good day, I hope?”

“Yes,” said Hannelís. _Because of you,_ she wanted to add, though there was no way she would say it out loud. But it was true; the promise of seeing Finduilas tonight had filled her day with the best sort of anticipation. “Did you?”

“I did.” Finduilas gazed at her, and her smile deepened, just for a moment. Then it faltered. “Your Grace…” Her eyebrows knit together, as though she was choosing her words with great care. “I am betrothed to the steward’s son.”

Hannelís’ own smile fell, and she nodded. “I know. I understand.”

She expected Finduilas to excuse herself now. That was the point of this meeting, wasn’t it--if one could call something this brief a meeting? Finduilas had come to let her down gently, privately, _kindly._ Because that was what Finduilas was, at her core: kind. It all made sense now. Hannelís tried not to let her disappoint show.

“I cannot help it,” said Finduilas. Hannelís heard the pain in her voice, so much that it stung _her_ heart, too. The young lady sighed, and then she stepped closer to Hannelís, pulled forward by some unseen force. “I know he cares for me, and I would not hurt him.” Her face twisted in something close to agony, and Hannelís realized in a rush there were tears in her eyes. “But I cannot love him, not ever. I cannot feel that for him, and I know--I _know_ it is wrong, that these _feelings_ are wrong, and unnatural--”

“They’re not.” Hannelís took her hands in her own. “I promise, my lady, they’re not wrong or-- _or_ unnatural.” But Finduilas only shook her head, and Hannelís sighed, wishing she knew something better to say. Thorongil had said the Men of Gondor were different from the Men of Rohan…less open-minded, that was how he put it. Hannelís thought it cruel, declaring what kinds of love were true and what weren’t. _It is love. That is all that matters._

At last, the tears spilled over, and Hannelís felt her heart break. “Please, shh,” she whispered, drawing nearer to Finduilas and putting her hands on her arm, her shoulder, her cheek. She did not know how to comfort her. She didn’t know how to put her back together. “Please, Finduilas--”

When Hannelís said her name, something changed in Finduilas. She wept and pulled Hannelís’ face to hers, pressing their lips together. Hannelís wanted to return the kiss--but she felt Finduilas’ tears like her own, wetting both of their cheeks, and it made her heart ache. As gently as she could, she laced her fingers through Finduilas’ and pulled her hands away from her face, holding them tight.

“What can I do?” she asked desperately. “Please, _tell_ me, how do I help you?”

“You can’t,” said Finduilas, her smile sad and tear-stained. “I must do my duty and wed him, and…I will. I have made my peace with that. But…” Her eyes drifted down, back to Hannelís’ lips, and when she met her eyes again, there was a determination there, mingled with heat. “Before I wed him, I would give you my heart, if you will have it.”

When Finduilas kissed her this time, Hannelís did not pull away. Slowly, her tears dried, and as the embrace grew in passion, her weeping turned to sighing. Finduilas dug her fingers into the sides of Hannelís’ gown and pulled her closer, until their bodies were flush against each other. And when Hannelís kissed down her neck, Finduilas moaned and whispered her name. Hannelís had never heard it said so beautifully.

Then, much too soon--the door opened.

The two young women came apart at once, but not quickly enough. There stood Gandalf, his face twisted in horrible surprise. But again, much too soon, the surprise faded, and was replaced with anger in its wake. He did not share his wrath with Finduilas, at least. “My lady,” he said, his voice tight with effort, “I think it best you retire to your own chamber for the night.”

Her face pale with fear, Finduilas dipped her head and was gone, the door slamming hard behind her. Now Gandalf did not bother hiding his ire. “So this is how you spend your time,” he said, glowering at Hannelís. “You are here to _learn_ from other rulers, not make _enemies_ of them. Do you have any idea what Ecthelion might do, what his son might do, if you were discovered by anyone else?”

Hannelís was more than a little intimidated by the Wizard, but she did her best to brush it off. “Ecthelion would not be so presumptuous as to enter my chamber unannounced,” she answered coolly, “nor would Denethor, especially because _he_ has barely given me a second glance since I arrived.”

“This is not a game,” pressed Gandalf, blazing. “In the end, you will go home to Erebor, where this sort of youthful indiscretion is encouraged--but what of her? If this was ever discovered, she would be shamed, if not ruined. Denethor would discard her; her parents might disown her. You are playing with fire, your Grace.”

Nothing he said was new to her. Already, she had thought this through, many times. Thorongil had warned her well enough for that. Of course she worried for Finduilas’ honor, her safety. She had tried to stay away--but she liked her too much, too deeply, and her heart won out over all else. _A fool for love,_ Dís might say, if she was here. Her aunt had said that of other young Dwarves who made idiots of themselves in their first romances. _Fools for love._

“Yes,” said Gandalf, half to himself. His voice brought Hannelís out of her thoughts. “Yes, it is time we end this venture and bring you home. Perhaps you have been gone too long, and that is the reason for this madness.”

 _No._ It took a moment for Hannelís to realize she had said it aloud. “No.” Then she was tripping over her words, hurrying toward the Wizard, distraught: “No, I’m not supposed to go home yet. I still need to learn from the steward-- _you_ said that, _you_ wanted me here.”

She could not leave yet. Her mind went to Finduilas, to Thorongil. She cared for them in different ways, but both with an equal fierceness. She did not want to lose them. The anticipation of grief hit her in a rush, harsh and unrelenting. For all she knew, she would never see either of them again. They would be lost to her, far across mountains and hills and rivers, unreachable, barred from her sight. Angry tears pricked at her eyes, and she wiped them away as she waited for the Wizard’s rebuke to crash down upon her.

“I was mistaken.” Gandalf had turned hard as stone, his blue eyes piercing her and spilling ice in her veins. He moved to the doorway, and stopped to face her once more. “I shall share your regrets with the steward. You wish you need not leave so soon…but duty calls, and Erebor needs its queen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This WLW content is dedicated to Ellie, lesbian of my heart.
> 
> I really didn't want to go all "angsty queer women romance ends tragically," but…I mean, Finduilas is herself a tragic character, and I AM still trying to be somewhat realistic to Middle-earth canon, and so if Finduilas and Hannelís have a thing, it HAS to be brief and sad because Finduilas must marry Denethor, because Boromir and Faramir must be born. You know?
> 
> Anyway, I wrote all of this today, which was my birthday present to myself. :)
> 
> Give me a belated birthday gift in the form of a comment or kudos?


	23. An Unseen Danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To her dismay, Hannelís is leaving Minas Tirith. But danger lurks on the road home.

Late the next day, the soldiers returned to Minas Tirith with much fanfare. Ecthelion had left some of his men stationed in Osgiliath, to bolster the existing garrison. They had succeeded in pushing the Orcs back into the eastern half of the ruins; the next step was to strengthen the defenses dividing the ancient city. The additional force left behind by Ecthelion would make short work of that. Perhaps, in time, the steward could even besiege the eastern Orkish stronghold. It was no massive victory, but Ecthelion would take a win against Mordor where he could.

Dwalin found Hannelís in the midst of the revelry, his armor splattered in dried black blood. “These Gondorians are fine fighters,” he roared, taking a great swig from his tankard. “So is that ranger, Thorongil. I can see why you like him.”

Hannelís tried to smile, but her heart twisted at his words. Dwalin did not know how _much_ Hannelís liked Thorongil. As far as the Dwarf was concerned, Thorongil was her close friend, nothing more. Across the dancing crowd, Hannelís spotted Thorongil, who was attempting to get a grin out of Denethor. But the steward’s son was more sullen than ever, and Hannelís could guess why.

Finduilas had not come to the celebration. She was frightened, Hannelís was sure, terrified that Gandalf would spill their secret. The Wizard had no intention of doing that, but Hannelís understood her fear. She still hoped to find her that evening, to apologize for her lack of caution--as if she should have known not to expect privacy in her own chamber. But she had not barred the door, and it was not really _her_ chamber, anyway. She was only a stranger here, and she should have been more careful.

Hannelís returned Dwalin’s smile, though her heart was not in it. She went through the motions of enjoying the festivities, drinking and tapping her foot to the music because that was what was expected of her. When Thorongil whisked her out to join the dancers, she could almost weep at his happiness. It was well-earned, to be sure; he was victorious, he and all the soldiers. But she could not share his joy, because she knew it would all be over in the morning. They would leave Minas Tirith, and this chapter of her life would be over.

She did not have the heart to tell Thorongil. She wanted to enjoy this night with him. And so she kept playing the part of the glad, smiling queen--and even when the party went late and they snuck away to her chamber and he kissed her between her legs until she cried out his name…even then, she said nothing of her imminent departure. He dressed and wished her sweet dreams with a smile, and she smiled back, hating herself.

Dwalin came to fetch her in the morning. How much Gandalf had told him, she could not be sure. The Dwarf looked tired, as though he had been up half the night preparing for their journey--which was probably exactly what he _had_ been doing. He glanced around her, and when he spotted her packed bags, he nodded. “I will have them carried to the stables, _azbad._ The Wizard is waiting.”

Rather, the Wizard _and_ the Steward of Gondor _and_ much of his court were waiting for her. It was tradition, apparently, for royal visitors of the court at Minas Tirith to be farewelled in such a fashion. And so, Hannelís entered the Citadel to find Gandalf and Ecthelion, and Denethor and Finduilas, and even Thorongil, who never once took his eyes off Hannelís from the moment she entered the room.

When Hannelís reached the steward, he bowed low, a gesture mirrored by the rest of his court. She dipped her head in return, more out of respect than anything else--she was not sure if she _should_ defer to him in that way, because he was a steward and not a king. But this was his court, and so she thought it best to err on the side of being overly respectful.

The audience was brief. “I was saddened to hear of your need to return home so soon,” said Ecthelion in his low, clear voice. He did not sound sad at all. “But duty I know well, and when it calls, you must answer.”

“Thank you for your understanding, my lord,” said Hannelís. Before she could say more, Gandalf spoke.

“We thank you, too, for the gracious hospitality of your halls,” he said, his voice ringing throughout the vaulted chamber. “We shall not soon forget your generosity, nor the warmth of your welcome.”

_Warm_ was hardly a word Hannelís would use to describe Minas Tirith, let alone the somber, formal Ecthelion. At Gandalf’s words, her gaze drifted to Finduilas. The lady stood at Denethor’s right hand, her face tight and pale. _She is terrified._ Even now, with their departure only moments away, she did not trust Gandalf would not reveal all and leave her to deal with the fallout.

Hannelís wanted to comfort her. But there was nothing she could do, not now. She had already done enough. The guilt gnawed at her, and she looked away, overcome by shame.

As they took their leave, the steward and his son stayed there, their noble faces hard and still and all seriousness. They could almost be statues, like all the others that decorated the Citadel, carved in the likeness of ancient kings. Finduilas, too, stood at Denethor’s side, the image of duty. Only Thorongil followed.

When they were clear of the guards and back in the open air, he leaned in close and murmured, “Why did you not tell me you were leaving?” His fingers brushed her arm, as though he almost took hold of her but thought better of it.

Hannelís saw how Dwalin’s eyes flitted down toward Thorongil’s hand. He had caught the gesture. He met Hannelís’ gaze briefly, but said nothing. Without looking back, Gandalf answered for her: “The Queen under the Mountain does not owe you an explanation for matters of state.”

But Thorongil had not asked Gandalf. He ignored the Wizard, pressing Hannelís for a response. “You have a regent. What matter of state is so urgent that it requires your immediate departure--when you will not reach Erebor for months?”

He had a point. It was not a good lie. Now Hannelís wondered if the steward had seen through their excuse, too. Perhaps that was the reason for his stony demeanor. _No matter._ It was too late to change that. Still, she did not want to lie to Thorongil. She trusted him. She loved him, in a way. But how could she admit she was leaving Gondor in disgrace, after doing the exact thing Thorongil himself had counseled her against? The shame was suffocating.

Gandalf halted and spun to face him, his staff clanging on the stone floor. “You forget yourself, Thorongil. It is not your place to question the queen’s decision.”

The Wizard was a full head shorter than Thorongil, but the ranger seemed to shrink before him, chastened. Irritation pricked at Hannelís. He was _right_ \--Thorongil _was_ overstepping. In private, he could be this bold and she would allow it, but not in front of others. But that did not mean she enjoyed watching Gandalf be a scold, either.

“I can speak for myself,” she said, leveling her gaze at the Wizard.

“Can you?” he challenged. “You’ve been rather silent. I was beginning to think you’d learned to hold your tongue.”

In an instant, Dwalin had rounded on him, eyes flashing. “You will not speak to her this way.”

Gandalf puffed angrily, glaring wide-eyed at the tattooed Dwarf. “I will speak in whatever way I deem necessary, thank you very much!” He shook his head and grumbled to himself, “Eru save me from the temerity of Dwarves.”

Hannelís bristled, and the words tumbled out of her mouth before she had a chance to stop them: “Consider yourself saved, then. Dwalin and I will return to Erebor on our own. Your help is not needed.”

Dwalin _harrumphed_ in agreement, crossing his thick arms across his chest. Gandalf sputtered at the two of them, his face going red. At last, he seemed to master himself, and he stamped his staff on the floor one last time. “Very well. Take care not to partake in any more political misdoings, your Grace.”

The fury raged hot in her then. She could feel both Dwalin and Thorongil’s eyes on her--curious, surely, at the Wizard’s warning. When Gandalf turned to leave, she heard herself say, “ _Wait._ ”

As soon as she was sure he was watching, Hannelís turned and kissed Thorongil in full. At first he tensed at her touch, but he seemed to sense the fierce need that roared through her. She wanted to spite Gandalf, yes. She wanted to make him furious. But already, she missed Thorongil. He was here, in front of her, and her heart already grieved him. He returned the kiss, gentle but firm. Beside them, Hannelís heard Dwalin inhale sharply.

The kiss did not last long. Thorongil pulled away first. And Hannelís looked to the Wizard, who had turned a deep shade of purple. But instead of admonishing her further, he turned to Thorongil. “I thought you wiser than this, my friend.” Though his anger had not abated, there was another edge in his voice, a sadness. _Disappointment._ Sometimes, that was worse than anger.

Without another word, the Wizard was gone. Thorongil shifted next to her. When she met his eyes, she found regret there--and hurt. Like it pained him that she would use him like this, weaponize their closeness to punish another.

The shame flooded through her again, sharp and unrelenting. Suddenly, she wanted to apologize. She wanted to come clean, to confess everything--but before she could find the words, Thorongil bowed before her and took her hand and kissed it. “I wish you safe travels, your Grace.”

There was a distance in his voice, though outwardly he was all courtesy. It was so unlike his usual warmth, it made Hannelís’ heart ache. Forcing a smile, she said, “You are welcome in Erebor, Thorongil, any time.” She put her whole heart into the words. She needed him to know she meant it. “Will you visit?” _Please say yes._

His answering smile was kind, even if his eyes were unconvincing. “Perhaps one day, your Grace.”

It was not the answer she wanted, nor was it said with any particular enthusiasm. But she held on to the hope, as she and Dwalin made their slow way back to the Lonely Mountain, that Thorongil would forgive her, given time. She hoped that _one day_ would indeed come to pass, that he would remember her fondly, instead of the dour Dwarf-queen who had ruined everything at the last possible moment. Hannelís hated how her emotions ruled her. Someday, she feared, her rash impulsivity would be her downfall.

Two months passed before they neared the western edge of Mirkwood, where the path began that would take them past the Elven-king’s realm and to the shores of the Long Lake. By now, it was December, and they had already endured a handful of nippy snowfalls. But Mahal be blessed, when the worst storm hit, they looked up and found Beorn’s home staring back at them in the distance, a toasty light glowing from within. Beorn was not thrilled to receive them, but at least they were two and not a company of fourteen Dwarves, a Hobbit, and a Wizard--and so, he welcomed them.

When the storm abated the next day, Hannelís and Dwalin set out for the western gate. It felt oddly familiar, save for the snow. They had taken the path through Mirkwood with Gandalf, of course, but that was going the other way. This was the first time she had gone _east_ again, since the adventure with Thorin’s Company almost thirty years ago. At least this time, she and Dwalin knew better what dark secrets the forest had to offer. They would stay on the path, and steer clear of spider webs, and avoid the Elves as best as they could.

But as they approached the gate, a new peril presented itself. A band of brigands burst out of the trees nearest to the gate, as though they had been waiting for Dwalin and Hannelís to arrive.

“ _Azbad!_ ” roared Dwalin, vaulting off his pony in one fluid movement. At once, he had his ax in hand, ready.

Hannelís’ boots hit the snow hard, Orcrist singing as she unsheathed it. But there were more brigands coming out of the trees--it was not just the first three, or even the first six, or ten. She counted twenty-two in total. _Fuck._ From the way Dwalin growled beside her, she could tell he shared her concern. They could not kill them all, not with the element of surprise gone and all of them armed.

And they were armed _well_ \--Hannelís saw several sporting Dwarven iron and steel. _They are from Dale, or Lake-town._ They were her neighbors. They traded with her people. Perhaps Dwalin had drank beside one of them in a Dalish pub once, without even knowing it. Did they know she was Erebor’s queen? Would they care if they knew?

The first trio was nearly upon them when a deafening roar came from behind her. Hannelís spun around--and there was Beorn, in the shape of a massive brown bear, teeth sharp and thirsting for blood.

Everything happened very quickly then. The poor brigands did not stand a chance. Beorn’s claws were like daggers, his paws as big as dinner plates. And he was strong, so much stronger than Hannelís knew. Fleetingly, she remembered he had fought in the Battle of Five Armies. He had arrived alongside the Eagles. But she had not seen him fight. Thorin had already been killed by then. Her world had already been destroyed.

The snow at the gate’s edge was stained red. All around, bodies lay broken and bleeding. Some of the Men had survived Beorn’s first blow, but he made short work of them now, going around to the injured survivors and tearing their throats out. When they were all dead, he took one last look at Hannelís and Dwalin, his maw dripping blood. With something close to a nod or bow, he took off for home.

Dwalin and Hannelís looked at one another, breathing hard. They still had not left their frightened ponies, who were huffing terribly in the cold, long puffs of smoke pushing out from their nostrils into the wintry air. “Shh, shh,” murmured Hannelís, stroking her pony’s neck. Slowly, it quieted under her touch.

Finally, Dwalin let out a great sigh. “Well,” he said, gesturing to the wood before them, “shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this house, we love drama for the sake of drama :)
> 
> ANYWAY, that was a weird attack. Hope y'all enjoyed!


	24. A Flurry of Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannelís is home once more. Get ready for the relentless passage of time, y’all. We still have 50 years before the War of the Ring, which means this chapter is going to skim over the next 20 years.

Dáin was horrified to learn of the brigands. “Baruch Mahal, it is good Beorn was so near,” were his exact words. Gandalf had sent word ahead that he would be escorting Hannelís and Dwalin home early. “Had I known the Wizard was not with you, I would have sent protection ahead of your passage through Mirkwood.”

Her regent had prepared a great feast in honor of her return. The hall was filled end to end with tables laden with all the best food and drink. Roast chicken, vegetables cooked in a rich garlic sauce, sweet braided bread, and more honey mead and mulled wine than the guests could reasonably drink in a month. Roaring fires blazed at either end of the hall, and musicians stood in the center playing songs from the Iron Hills. The dancing was boisterous and merry, and Hannelís could not help but be happy amidst such revelry.

Thorin monopolized her for much of the night, spinning her across the floor until Gimli all but pried her out of his arms. “It’s my turn to dance with the queen!” he shouted, pushing Thorin away with a laugh.

Once Thorin had faded into the rest of the dancers, Gimli gave Hannelís a wicked smile and said, “He has missed you, _azbad._ Your arrival is all he has spoken of for weeks. He’s been a pain to be around.”

Hannelís’ smile was tinged with guilt. Between Thorongil and Finduilas, she had nearly forgotten that Thorin was still waiting for her here in the Lonely Mountain. She almost felt like a different person than the Dwarrow who had set out for Rohan in the spring.

Unfortunately, Gimli sensed her lack of enthusiasm. “What?” If it was possible, his smile twisted into something even more devilish. He peered at her through narrowed eyes, until suddenly he gasped and howled with laughter. “You _met_ someone! Oh, you had some foreign romance, didn’t you?”

Hannelís winced, and that was answer enough. She knew how close Gimli and Thorin were, but Gimli did not seem angry on his friend's behalf. Instead, he was happy for her--happy, and curious. “You must tell me everything. And leave _nothing_ out.” He fixed her with an intense, half-threatening gaze. “If you do, I’ll know.” The intensity was gone in an instant, and he chuckled again, shaking his head. “Erebor’s queen, sleeping her way through the world of Men. I’m so proud.”

“Gimli!” Hannelís looked this way and that, but no one seemed to pay them any mind. Still, she couldn’t risk rumors spreading. Dwarves were more relaxed when it came to bedding, but she was a queen; she had a certain dignity to uphold. Gimli nodded and put a finger to his lips, though he could not hide his smile. Her secret was safe with him.

It was Gimli who encouraged Hannelís to write Thorongil. She hated how she had hurt him, and she felt she owed him an explanation. And so she told him the whole horrible truth, how she let herself fall for Finduilas even after Thorongil’s warning, how they kissed and were found. And Gandalf decided it was time for her to leave Minas Tirith, to leave Finduilas and Thorongil, no matter how much Hannelís would miss them. And then in anger, she had ruined it all and brought Thorongil low with her, all to spite the Wizard. She apologized once, twice, thrice. She hoped it would be enough.

Within his letter, Hannelís enclosed a second missive. _Give it to Finduilas,_ she wrote to Thorongil. _I need to know she is well. I need to hear from her._ She said a prayer to the Smith that Thorongil would agree to deliver it.

A month passed before the raven returned to the Lonely Mountain, bearing not one, but two responses. Thorongil thanked her for her apology. Things in Minas Tirith had remained tense with Gandalf, he reported, though he was certain the Wizard would forgive him eventually. He had always known discovery was a risk, when bedding a queen. He had not looked for that discovery to be _given_ by that very same queen…it had felt like a betrayal, he confessed, though he understood the emotions that had driven her to it. He wished her well in Erebor. He even offered up the possibility of him venturing north--not for a long while, to be sure, but one day.

When Hannelís read that last bit, she smiled, without even meaning to. It just happened on its own, a lightness in her heart at the thought of seeing him again. She liked that. She wrote back to him at once, emphasizing that he would be a welcome guest of the Kingdom under the Mountain any time, for however long. She could show him Dale, the Long Lake, even Mirkwood. He liked Elves, she remembered. She didn’t know _why…_ but she could look past that.

It took her longer to read the second letter. The first time she opened it and saw it was from Finduilas, she had to put it down and find a way to swallow the rush of emotion that rose in her then. She was so afraid of what the letter might hold. If Gandalf was still in Minas Tirith…could he have told Denethor, or Ecthelion? _Would_ he? Hannelís did not think the Wizard was _cruel,_ but that didn’t mean she trusted him to be discreet. Maybe for Finduilas’ sake, but not for Hannelís’. He did not seem to care for the Dwarf-queen much. That was mutual.

Finduilas missed her. When Hannelís read that, she thought she might weep. She was safe, and well, and trying to find happiness in the White City. She was desperately lonely, Hannelís could see that in between her words. She longed for home, for family, for companionship. Denethor might have affection for her, but he was a cold and distant man. He could not give her the warmth she needed. Hannelís’ heart broke for her.

Finduilas, too, Hannelís invited to the Lonely Mountain. She knew not how much control Finduilas had over her comings and goings in Minas Tirith and beyond. She had been sent to Ecthelion’s court at 18 when her betrothal to Denethor was decided. By now, she must already have turned 20. The date of their wedding had yet to be determined, but she was in essence already a part of that noble household, and answerable to them. Still, she sent the invitation regardless. Maybe it would be possible, someday.

In good weather, it took the ravens a week to travel from Erebor to Minas Tirith. Sometimes, Hannelís heard from Finduilas twice a month. Thorongil wrote less frequently. He had settled into a nice rhythm in Gondor. Slowly, given the opportunity, he was making a name for himself. The other soldiers recognized in him a strong, capable warrior, and he soon gained the deep respect of his fellows. Even Ecthelion saw something special in him, and in time began seeking out his advice, even in non-military matters. Thorongil felt at home in Gondor. The same could not be said for Finduilas.

She and Denethor did marry. They were wed on a warm spring day in the year 2976, atop the seventh circle of the city, a massive crowd gathered to the end of the parapet to bear witness to the occasion. Finduilas wore a silken gown the color of the sky, with a sapphire sash that brought out her eyes. Denethor was kind and gentle with her, though he never managed to shake the sullen cloud that ever followed him. All of this, Finduilas shared with Hannelís. _I wish you could have seen it._ Hannelís wished so, too.

In a companion letter, Thorongil assured Hannelís that Denethor was good at heart, that he would treat Finduilas well. _She may grow to care for him, even if she will never love him._ Hannelís felt the sadness in his words. He knew it was not ideal, being tied forever to one when you loved another. More than not ideal. It was a cruelty all its own. Hannelís wanted more for herself, when the time came for her to marry. She could not marry _only_ for love. As queen, duty would always be what mattered more. But she hoped there would be a place for love in her future, somewhere.

A little over a year passed when the news came that Finduilas was expecting. Her letter radiated with the joy of it, along with the fear, the uncertainty. Her mother came up from Dol Amroth to be by her side throughout the ordeal; apparently, pregnancy had weakened Finduilas, but her mother’s presence strengthened her.

And as Finduilas awaited this new life, another life took its leave of the world. King Bard, once called the Bowman, passed into the halls of his fathers, and his son Bain assumed watch over Dale. Just a few months later, more news arrived: Finduilas had borne a son, a beautiful and healthy boy named Boromir. And although Hannelís had never embroidered anything in her life, she labored night and day until she had stitched Durin’s Crown into a kerchief and sent it away for the little heir of Gondor.

Motherhood brought Finduilas a respite from some of her loneliness, at least. With gladness, Thorongil reported how she doted on her son, filling his life with songs and laughter. She smiled more now, he said. She had found happiness in Minas Tirith. It comforted Hannelís to know that.

Five years later, Boromir became a brother. Finduilas bore a second son, a tiny thing who came too early yet survived against all hope. _Faramir,_ wrote Finduilas’ delicate hand. She loved him desperately. Denethor, she said, focused his energies on Boromir. He was more like his father, dark and serious and strong. And _he_ was the heir, not Faramir. That made him less important in his father’s eyes. It pained Finduilas to admit that, but it was the truth. She endeavored to give Faramir enough attention for the _both_ of them. She never wanted him to feel less than.

By now, Thorongil was gone from Minas Tirith. He had left before Faramir’s birth, to venture into Harad and then Rhûn, to see more of the world. Hannelís heard from him less and less frequently. Sometimes, more than a year passed before the ravens would return bearing word of his wanderings. Then a letter came announcing his return west; he made for Rivendell by way of the Misty Mountains, and would soon enter the woods of Lothlórien. And after that, nothing. He never answered another of her letters. He never came to Erebor, either.

For years, this was Hannelís’ reckoning of time. In letters, and pages, and words woven from the hands of those she loved. All around, the world whirled on endlessly, punctuated by these brief moments when she remembered her journey through the realms of Men and the people she had met there.

Ever she yearned to see them again, to feel their touch and see their smile. But Thorongil, it seemed, had moved on. And one morning, a raven came from Minas Tirith, bearing dark words on dark wings. For once, it was not Finduilas who wrote her, but Denethor. He had found their letters, he said, hidden among his wife’s things. _My wife,_ he wrote, not _Finduilas,_ because before she was even a person of her own, she was his.

 _My wife is dead._ Hannelís read the words again and again, and still she did not believe. The words severed something in her, some hope that she could not quite describe. Finduilas was dead, gone from this world forever. Hannelís would never see her again. And more than that, her _sons._ Hannelís’ heart ached for them. They were too young to endure such loss. Denethor’s final words echoed her thoughts--two brief phrases, curt and cold and laden with blame. They twisted in her heart like a knife.

_Please do not write us again. My family has suffered enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we’re past the massive chunk of time where there’s just…no canonical information about what’s happening in Erebor. Next up: Balin has a really smart idea to resettle Khazad-dûm and I, for one, think that will go extremely well. Then a quick trip back to Mirkwood, some more regional political drama thanks to Dáin, and uh-oh! A strange messenger from Mordor looking for…information about Bilbo and a magic ring? Sounds suspicious to me.
> 
> Hope y’all are having a warm and safe holiday season. As always, please let me know what you think, and thanks for reading!


	25. Of Love and Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dáin is no longer regent…but is he, really? Hannelís and Dís have some long-overdue bonding.

Officially, Dáin’s regency ended in 2986 when, at long last, Hannelís came of age--by Dwarven reckoning. Although she had _been_ of age for years, Dáin held out for her seventy-fifth birthday. That was when, in Dwarven culture, adolescence gave way to adulthood, folly to maturity, recklessness to responsibility. At least, that was when Dwarves were _supposed_ to take on those better, practical attributes. Kíli had been 77 when he died, and _mature_ and _responsible_ were not words anyone would use to describe _him._

Still, officially, it was time for Dáin to step down. Unofficially, it was not that simple.

He continued to serve on her council as an advisor. He had no title beyond that: _advisor._ It was a blatant attempt to exert his control over the Kingdom under the Mountain, Balin admitted as much when Hannelís pressed him about it. She wanted Dáin off the council; it was all too easy, with nearly all the other council-members being from the Iron Hills, for him to effectively overrule her. Balin cautioned her not to make an enemy of him. He was popular, and Hannelís was still distrusted by some as a half-human queen who could not truly understand Dwarven matters or concerns. For the time being, she needed Dáin on her side, and that meant giving him a taste of power now and then.

It also meant continuing to entertain the idea of a match with his son. Thorin was nice enough--handsome, to be sure, and skilled with a hammer, both in the arena and in metalwork. The Dwarves of the Iron Hills looked to him as their savior: the pure blood of Durin, unsullied by a Mannish line, the capable heir of their sworn lord Dáin.

Hannelís cared for him, though often more as a friend and a cousin than a potential lover. Their brief flirtation had cooled upon her return to Erebor; although Thorin had initially been overjoyed at her return, he had quickly realized her heart was elsewhere. He would still marry her in a second, of course. He knew as well as Hannelís how determined his father was to see them wed. But their mutual affection remained, for the most part, more mild and affable than anything resembling passion.

Not that passion was a prerequisite for their match. They both knew that. It was purely political. But even if it might be the right move forward for Hannelís’ reign, a not-small part of her resented doing anything that would please Dáin. He was all courtesy to her face, but the years had not erased his words to Rivkís long ago. Hannelís remembered them well. _Half-breed. Half-mad._ That was what he thought of her. She could not bring herself to trust him--and granting him something he wanted was like pulling teeth.

“I could marry you,” said Gimli once, his hand flying to his mouth to cover the burp that burst forth unexpectedly. He cleared his throat and took another swig of ale. “The only problem is--”

“I am not a Dwarf-man.” Together, they laughed. Gimli had enjoyed his share of flings in Erebor, tangling with other young warriors from the Iron Hills. But he hadn’t found the right Dwarf yet, one who he truly loved and could build a live with. Unfortunately, Hannelís could not be more _wrong_ for him. “A kind offer, though.”

They drank in silence, the Dalish pub buzzing around them. “He really liked you.” Gimli was gazing into his empty tankard, uncomfortable with the sudden seriousness, even though he was the one making it that way. “Would’ve married you on the spot, until he realized you loved someone else. He’s a good Dwarf, Lís.”

“I know he is,” she said evenly. She did not want to be talking about this. She had only brought up her frustration that Dáin was pressing once more for a betrothal, and then Gimli’s joke had led here.

In truth, Hannelís did not know if she had loved either of them, Thorongil or Finduilas. She didn’t know if she’d _known_ them long enough to love them. But they _had_ changed her. They had given her a taste of what _could_ be love, given time. Yes, Hannelís wanted more than a political match. She longed to love and be loved in return.

But at the same time, since the news of Finduilas’ death, she had been afraid. Because loving meant losing. Her grip on the tankard tightened. She had already lost enough for a lifetime. Perhaps it was better, kinder to not let herself love anymore. It would save her from grief, in the long run.

She drained her tankard in one last gulp and set it back on the counter. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

The year after Finduilas died, Hannelís suffered another blow. The guilty party was as much a surprise as the news he bore: Balin, loyal friend and counselor to three generations of Durin rulers, had decided to leave. “I did not wish to burden you until it was final,” he said, wincing in regret.

He would make for the Misty Mountains with a hardy crew of Dwarves from Ered Luin, to recolonize the old Dwarf-kingdom of Khazad-dûm. “This has weighed heavy on my heart, _azbad,_ ” he confessed, and she believed him. “Long have I desired to rebuild those sacred halls. And now, with Dáin’s regency ended and your rule secure…it is time.”

Hannelís’ rule did not _feel_ secure. But Balin had made his choice. And Dwalin made his. He would not abandon his queen. It pained both of the brothers to be parted, but Dwalin promised to visit Khazad-dûm after it was resettled. “We will walk the Dwarrowdelf together, brother,” he said, clasping Balin’s arm.

And so Dwalin inherited Balin’s seat on the royal council, taking over all priestly duties. He felt unsuited to the job, remarking to Hannelís that it was like wearing an ill-fitting piece of armor. Yet he fulfilled the charge of his line, serving Mahal’s people as best he could. To Hannelís’ delight, he openly challenged Dáin’s attempts at steering the council. And Dáin could never so much as suggest Dwalin be replaced, for the position of _cohen_ was hereditary; it was Dwalin’s birthright--and he would not let Dáin forget it. “When my father Fundin was priest,” quickly became a favorite phrase of his.

The mountain felt emptier without Balin and those who went with him. Óin and Ori, too, made the journey to Khazad-dûm, as well as many others from Ered Luin. Sometimes, Hannelís wondered what her father would think of Erebor now, if he could see it. Only half of Thorin’s Company remained in the Lonely Mountain, and with this last exodus, the number of Dwarves from Ered Luin had dwindled precipitously. At times, Erebor felt more like a colony of the Iron Hills than a kingdom of its own.

One chill November day while snow blanketed the land, Hannelís pulled a fur-trimmed cloak tight around her and descended to the Hall of Kings. When she arrived, the long stone chamber was dim and cold, the torches burning low along the walls. Yet as she drew nearer to the place where her kin lay, a small flame glowed. It was Dís.

The Dwarrow knelt on the hard floor, her own cloak half-fallen from her shoulders. Beside her was a lantern, the glass scattering light across the tombs. She faced the graves of her sons, dark eyes not quite seeing. Without a word, Hannelís knelt at her side and hiked her aunt’s cloak higher, to stave off the cold.

“Do you know,” murmured Dís, “it is almost fifty years since they died?”

It felt impossible, but it was true. Of course Hannelís knew. How could she not? No matter how long she lived, she would always know the count. Still, _fifty._ She stared at the tombs, trying to conjure the faces of her kin in her mind.

Dís had her mother’s golden locket, which held portraits of each of her children, painted when they were very young, before Smaug set their world on fire. She had her own locket, too, with childhood depictions of Fíli and Kíli. But none of them as adults. There were none of Thorin, either. If they had lived longer--if Thorin had been crowned, if Fíli and Kíli had become something like princes--then perhaps they would have had cause to commission newer portraits. But they did not live, and so Hannelís was left with only her memory.

“Sometimes I think I’ve almost forgotten what they looked like.” It felt like a sin, admitting it out loud. _To forget is a terrible thing._ Her father had taught her that, lifetimes ago in Ered Luin. _Once we forget, they are gone forever._

Hannelís battled through her guilt and continued: “But then I think…no, Fíli, he had hair like mine. And Kíli, he had our eyes, the exact same color. And Abba…” She closed her eyes tight and willed herself to see him. The grief sat in her throat like a rock, choking her. She blinked back tears and opened her eyes again. “When I was little, he would hold me as I fell asleep, and sing. And his voice was so low, I could feel it rumbling in my chest. And I knew I would be safe as long as he was there with me.”

Tears were streaming down Dís’ face, but she laughed. “Once,” she said, smiling, “Thorin took them out to see the stars. He wanted to teach them the constellations. You were too little, so you stayed with me.”

She reached out and took Hannelís’ hand with a squeeze. “It was cloudy that night. Thorin was ready to give up and try again tomorrow, but Kíli got it into his head that if he just climbed high enough, he’d be able to see them.” Again, she chuckled at the memory. “Really, I think he was showing off. He was always a strong climber. So he found the tallest tree and started to climb. But a branch broke beneath him, and he fell and broke his arm. Thorin was afraid I’d be furious. I _was_ \--but not at him. Kíli’s recklessness wasn’t my brother’s fault.”

Dís still blamed Thorin for her sons’ deaths, Hannelís knew that. She heard it lurking behind her words now. Dís may have been born in Erebor, but it was not her home. Hannelís doubted it ever would be. It was full of too much death for her, too much grief. But Ered Luin was filled with memories of her sons, too. Dís would be haunted by them forever.

No, not haunted. _You will always carry this loss with you._ Dwalin had said that in the aftermath of their deaths, when Hannelís was still recovering from her attempt on her own life. _You will always carry them._ It was not a curse to remember them. It was a blessing, in spite of the pain. At least, that was what she tried to believe.

“I hope I never love anyone else for as long as I live.” Hannelís whispered the words, afraid if she said them too loud, Dís would scold her and deem her heartless. It felt like a terrible thing to say, but it felt wise, too. There were already some she loved: Dís, Dwalin, others. She was already doomed to grieve them, should they die before her. Closing her heart now meant saving herself from even more grief in the future. It was a gift to herself, in a twisted sort of way.

“Oh, you will.” When Hannelís looked at her aunt, her smile was more subdued than before. Dís pressed a hand to her niece’s cheek and sighed. “You feel too fiercely _not_ to. You have a fire in you, Lís--sometimes to your detriment. Your father had the same edge." She tucked a curl behind Hannelís' ear before taking her hand once more. "You live your life with your whole heart. Do not run from that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As 2020 comes to a close, I'm slowing rewatching the extended Lord of the Rings trilogy and I finished Fellowship this morning and…first of all, I really love Frodo and I just feel the need to emphasize that. Second of all, when Boromir died, I kept thinking about Finduilas and what a tragic character she is and the suffering Boromir and Faramir have endured, and how all Boromir wants is the strength to defend his people…I weep.
> 
> We're taking a trip to Mirkwood next chapter. Hope y'all enjoyed, and please let me know your thoughts! :)


	26. Return to Mirkwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannelís' queenly duties bring her back to the Elven-king's halls. One night, she runs into Legolas.

The Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain and the Elves of the Woodland Realm shared a delicate relationship. Certainly, the restoration of Erebor was a boon for the entire region, and Mirkwood was not excluded from that. As Thorin Oakenshield had once promised, all _did_ share in the wealth of the mountain, in one form or another.

The influx of Dwarves from Ered Luin and the Iron Hills brought skilled craftsmen of every kind imaginable. Dale and Lake-town were largely rebuilt by Dwarven hands. Where Lake-town ferried rich Dorwinion wine all the way from the Sea of Rhûn, and Mirkwood dealt in lumber and silk, Erebor was full of natural resources ripe to be mined.

The region bloomed under their care, yet the Elves ever looked at the Dwarves with suspicion--and the Dwarves, for their part, did not look kindly upon _them,_ either. When a sickness blighted the forest of Mirkwood, destroying hundreds of their trees, Dáin sought lumber elsewhere rather than pay a steeper price for what little Thranduil had left. He found a fresh supply from Rhûn and declined to renew Erebor’s contracts with Mirkwood. In time, Dale and Lake-town followed, preferring the cheaper Rhûnish timber to anything the Elves could offer. And so, the relationship between the Elves and Dwarves soured.

By the time Dáin stepped down as regent, Erebor had expanded its trading horizons. Dwarves now passed through Mirkwood and over the Misty Mountains to sell their wares in Eriador. The path through Mirkwood had never been safe, as Hannelís well knew. Giant spiders continued to plague the forest, and the occasional band of brigands continued to be a hazard. But of late, Orcs had begun leading raids from Dol Guldur, a dark fortress to the south.

The forest was only growing more dangerous, and utilizing the old path for Dwarven trade was fraught with peril. With the aid of her council, Hannelís crafted a proposal for a vast undertaking: a fortification of the existing path, along with an expansion, to create a small system of defensible roads throughout the forest.

Although Dáin agreed that such an undertaking was necessary, he had no desire to partake in the Elven side of things; when the time came to deliver the proposal to Thranduil, he said only, “Good luck.” There was brief discussion over whether Glóin, as ambassador, should accompany Hannelís…but he had not forgotten his imprisonment in Thranduil’s halls. Worse, he despised the Elf-prince Legolas, who Glóin claimed had mistaken the portrait of Gimli in his locket for some sort of goblin mutant. Hannelís thought it best he stay home.

A familiar face greeted her at the shores of the Long Lake: Tauriel, come to escort her the rest of the way. It was strange, seeing her again. It brought Hannelís back to her childhood, to her father’s quest for Erebor, and all that happened after. She was both happy to see her _and_ not. But this was a matter of diplomacy, and so Hannelís smiled the whole journey to the gate.

Tauriel seemed much the same. It had been half a century since Hannelís last entered Thranduil’s halls. So much had changed for her; _she_ was much changed. But Tauriel was as lovely as ever, as kind as ever. Yet she was not _all_ the same.

With joy, Tauriel informed Hannelís that she had wed. Calendîs was her name, a skilled hunter with a compassionate heart. They were still newlyweds by Elven standards, still in their first quarter-century of marriage, and from the way Tauriel spoke of her, they were wildly in love. Tauriel promised to introduce them at the first opportunity. Hannelís said she could not wait to meet her, and she meant it.

If only Thranduil had been half as delighted to receive her. He whisked her into a meeting as soon as she arrived, and listened impatiently throughout the whole proposal. It was plain to Hannelís that the Elven-king still felt slighted by Dáin abandoning their trade deal. She even broached the subject of lumber--with great care--hinting that their current Rhûnish contract would be finished soon, and perhaps Erebor would be looking elsewhere for its timber.

“That is a start,” allowed the Elven-king, who still looked displeased, “though I shall require more if I am to permit such an intensive undertaking within my borders. I will need time to consider what else you may offer, before we can come to an agreement.”

All in all, it was not a terrible first meeting, though it was not encouraging, either. It seemed Hannelís would have time to reacquaint herself with Thranduil’s halls. She only hoped she was not here long enough to become reacquainted _too_ well.

The Elves had prepared for her the same chambers she had stayed in when Thorin’s Company was imprisoned. Perhaps they thought it would feel familiar, or comfortable…but Hannelís hated it. It made her feel half a child again, stirring up dark memories she would rather forget. Before Mirkwood, her father was fine, whole, well. Here, they were separated. And when she met Thorin next, she had not recognized him. The sickness had already taken his mind, and he was no longer the father she knew.

She felt trapped lying there, staring up at the silken canopy. A restlessness plagued here. She would find no rest in these walls. And so, she decided she would rather not try.

She dressed and stepped back into the dim tunnels. For a while, it seemed she was alone, surrounded only by the glowing lanterns hanging from the twisting trees, her only company the bioluminescent shimmers in the water below. It was comforting, in a lonely way. She would rather wander alone than wander with an Elf.

No sooner had Hannelís thought that than Legolas appeared, stumbling out of a tunnel across from where she stood. His cheeks were flushed, and in his hand was a bottle of something that looked suspiciously like Thranduil’s prized Dorwinion wine.

He stilled when he saw Hannelís, his brow pulling together into a frown. For a moment, his eyes narrowed while he considered her. Then he seemed to remember himself. His bow was not as stiff as it normally was. “Good evening, your Grace.”

“Good evening,” she said, swallowing a grin. It would not be good diplomacy to laugh at the Elven-king’s son, even if he _did_ look drunk and ridiculous.

He blinked at her, and his grip on the bottle tightened at his side, sliding halfway behind him in a poor attempt to hide it. He gazed around the vast empty hall before looking at her again. “Can’t sleep?”

“No.” This time, she did smile, just a little. She was finding she preferred drunk Legolas. He seemed self-conscious, almost--less sure, and much less serious. Not as angry. She was about to ask him the same, but she realized she didn’t know if Elves slept. The Elven-halls were empty now, and it was night--to Hannelís, that evidence certainly _pointed_ to sleep. But Elves were also immortal; perhaps their bodily needs differed. _Mahal, they’re bizarre._

Before she could decide what to say next, Legolas unhid the bottle and lifted it clearly into view. “Then will you join me?” It sounded more like a request than an invitation. He was not being friendly; he was seeking company. Those were different things, she supposed. “I do not like to drink alone.”

His request was such a surprise, Hannelís could manage nothing more than a nod. Legolas sighed and gestured down a stairway, which wound down to the wine cellar far below the rest of Thranduil’s halls. The Elf-prince wasted no time in prying open a fresh barrel and pouring them both generous goblets.

It was a sweet red wine, a similar vintage to ones Erebor purchased from Rhûn. It only took half a goblet for her to feel something, a slight buzzing in her head. The wine was strong. Yet in the time it took her to drink just half, Legolas had already drained another two full goblets. Again, she marveled at the hardy strangeness of Elves.

On one hand, Hannelís was curious why Legolas was so intent on achieving drunkenness--as that was clearly his goal, based on the rate he was going. On the other, she was genuinely concerned for his well-being. Not that she particularly cared for him…but this amount of wine could not be good for anyone, even an Elf. And so, it was a mixture of these two feelings, curiosity and concern, that finally drove her to speak: “Is something wrong?”

Legolas gave her a look that seemed to say _everything_ was wrong, and he could not possibly know where to begin. But something in her face must have worried him, for he set his goblet on a shelf and pushed himself up onto a barrel--swaying slightly as he did so--and said, “No, I am quite well, thank you.”

Hannelís followed his lead, settling onto a nearby stool. “Forgive me, my lord, but I find that hard to believe.”

At _my lord,_ his face contorted horribly, and he waved her away. “No, no, I can’t do with these fucking titles. My name is Legolas, that is _all_ I am, please.”

He had never corrected her like that before. It seemed the wine was loosening his tongue. “Very well,” she said, because he was so insistent. “You may call me Hannelís, then.”

“Hannelís,” he repeated, feeling how her name sounded in his mouth. It might have been the first time he ever said it--Hannelís, not _the Dwarf-queen,_ or simply _the Dwarf._ “Hannelís, Legolas, the ends of our names are the same.” He chuckled, like it amused him. But just as quickly as the laughter came, it was gone, and Legolas sighed once more and shut his eyes, his face twisting in pain.

“My lo--Legolas?” Hannelís did not want to press him, but… _something is troubling him._ “Are you sure nothing is the matter?”

Legolas shook his head and gathered up his goblet from the shelf. He stared at its contents for a long moment before downing it all at once. “My father is after an heir.” He scooted off the barrel to pour more.

Hannelís frowned, watching him. “Aren’t _you_ his heir?”

The Elf rolled his eyes. “Of course, but he wants another. From _me._ ” He scowled at his already-drained goblet, before tipping it over and watching the last drop of wine fall to the floor. “It is not our _time_ anymore, you know. The Elves.”

Hannelís certainly did _not_ know, but she didn’t say anything, either. “My father will not let me forget it. The Eldar are leaving this land, and soon most of our kind will be gone. Which means an opportunity to expand, to…” Legolas motioned vaguely with the empty goblet, struggling to find the words in his drunken haze. “Rebuild abandoned Elven lands. So he wants me to get myself an heir, if there is to be more to _rule._ ”

“You do not…want an heir?” she ventured, seeking clarity. It was the duty of royals to continue their line, to ensure stability and safety for their people in the long run. Her father had wed a noble human rather than wait for the right Dwarf, so great was his desire to produce an heir of Durin.

“It is not quite so simple,” sighed Legolas. When he went to reopen the cask, only to find it dry, he looked like he might weep. “It is not that I do not _want_ an heir. I do not want a _wife._ ”

 _Oh._ That complicated things. But it still was not hopeless. “Well…” Hannelís tried to sound encouraging. “My father did not desire women, either. But he took a wife and got his heir, and went on to have a great love,” she said, thinking of Bilbo. “Perhaps you can have both.”

Hannelís had never seen a look of such deep disgust. One would think she had just suggested ripping a babe from its mother’s breast and dashing its head against a rock. His answer was harsh: “Perhaps Dwarves allow such disloyalty and _depravity,_ but we do not. We are faithful in our marriages, as in all things.”

She bristled at his condemnation. “If all parties consent to it, then what is the harm? It is hardly depraved, _or_ disloyal--”

“We are not polygamists,” said Legolas, his voice sharp.

“It’s--” Hannelís had the distinct impression they were misunderstanding one another, talking past each other and assuming they _knew_ what the other meant, only they didn’t. “It is not polygamy.”

The Elf scoffed. “It is marriage; what else would you call it?”

“It is _not_ marriage,” she said evenly, “it’s fucking.”

He blinked at her, and she stared right back, trying to understand what was the problem. When he continued to fix her with that maddening look of disgust and reproach, one possibility occurred to her. “Legolas,” she began with care, “are the act of bedding and the act of marriage…contingent upon each other? For Elves, I mean?”

He frowned, but at least that was a marginally nicer expression. “What do you mean? Are they not for Dwarves?”

“No, I mean…” Hannelís smiled, relieved to have found an answer to this clash of cultures. “If that was the case, I’d already be married,” she laughed, “and my people would _not_ like that.”

Most of Hannelís’ confusion was gone, but it seemed Legolas’ was growing by the instant. _Poor thing._ He’d really drunk far too much. “Your people do not want you to be married?”

“Oh, they do--just not to anyone who isn’t a Dwarf.” _And especially not a common ranger, noble though he seemed._ Thorongil would have been a hard sell to the Kingdom under the Mountain. Hannelís knew it was unwise to say what she said next, but the wine had relaxed her. “Dáin wants me to wed his son, Thorin. He’s been pushing for a betrothal for years--decades, really. So I can understand pressure to marry.”

Legolas nodded slowly, and it did seem some small comfort to him, that he was not alone in this particular struggle. “And is there something objectionable about him, this son of his? Why have you not wed him?”

“No, there is nothing wrong with Thorin, it is more…” Hannelís made a face. “I do not trust Dáin. I never have. He has always been a threat to my rule, and now that his regency is ended, he is desperate for more power. He could win that through his son, and then one day he would have the satisfaction of his grandchild sitting on the throne…and in all honesty, I do not want to give him that. Why should I reward someone who hates me?”

The Elf’s brow knit together. “Hate? He is your kin.”

She was fairly certain it _was_ hate, what Dáin felt for her. Sometimes, when she spoke with him, she could remember so vividly that evening years ago, when she overhead him arguing with her grandmother. Rivkís had put him in his place, but not before he deemed his queen _half-breed._ Hannelís remembered the gratitude she had felt for Rivkís then, when she strong-armed Dáin into a long-overdue coronation and swore she would always be on Hannelís’ side.

In a rush, she missed her grandmother. Rivkís was a strong Dwarrow, strong and harsh at times, and her good opinion once lost was gone forever. She had never forgiven Dáin for his words that night. In spite, she had even suggested a marriage alliance with Dale or Mirkwood, just to rile him. Dáin’s face had turned redder than his hair at the thought of Hannelís wed to Bain or Legolas. That had been fun to witness, at least.

“What if you agreed to the match?” asked Legolas. “For now, I mean. You are young; you can delay the marriage and change your mind later. If you decide you want Thorin, then marry him. And if not, imagine how satisfying it would be, to promise Dáin what he has long desired, only to snatch it out of his hands?”

Hannelís could not hide her smile. “That’s devious,” she said with a laugh. “I actually _like_ that plan.” It would be unkind to Thorin--but surely he sensed the animosity between Dáin and Hannelís. Perhaps his father had even confessed it to him on occasion. Anyway, Hannelís would not be playing with Thorin’s heart, only his hand.

Legolas grinned. “Do not tell my father I said that. He would not approve of me getting involved in Dwarven affairs.”

“Our secret, then.” He bobbed his head in appreciation. “No, he rather doesn’t like involving himself with Dwarves, does he? Though I feel much the same, where Elves are concerned.” It was half a jest, and fortunately he laughed. “But it _is_ necessary sometimes, whether we like it or not.”

The Elf shrugged, his smile going lopsided. “For the sake of good business, I am afraid you are right.” For a heavy moment, he sat there, considering her. Then he leapt to his feet and clapped. “Good business. That is what will convince him, is good business.”

Before Hannelís could ask what he meant, Legolas was off, his sudden determination masking the lingering effects of the wine. He abandoned her there in the wine cellar, and as the minutes stretched on, she was forced to admit he wasn’t coming back. And so she returned to her room, a fair bit more tired than before. At least the wine had helped with _that._

When she joined Thranduil and Galadhrían to break their fast, Hannelís was surprised to see Legolas there, too. He looked far too happy for one who had drunk so much mere hours ago. Again with the bizarre nature of the Elves.

The Elf-prince was not alone in his good mood. Both Thranduil and Galadhrían appeared pleased to see her. “Did you sleep well, your Grace?” asked the Elven-queen.

She had, thanks to the wine, and she said as much--leaving out the bit about the wine, of course. Galadhrían managed only a brief, “Wonderful,” in response before Thranduil leaned forward and spoke: “You will be delighted, I am sure, to hear that my son solved our diplomatic predicament in the night.”

He did not wait for her to answer. Instead, he nodded to the prince as he continued, “Legolas believes the strengthening of the old road is in the best interest at all, especially in these uncertain times. However, I would feel more secure allowing strangers passage through our realm if they had more of a personal stake in it. A financial stake, Legolas thought. I have decided to allow the fortification of the road in exchange for the right to levy a toll on all travelers. _This_ will give me satisfaction.”

Hannelís glanced at Legolas, doing her best to keep her face even. _Good business, indeed._ It was a small price to pay--literally--for the security and convenience of a better road system throughout Mirkwood. Even if there were several toll points, depending on which path was taken…so long as the rates were not exorbitant, it seemed a fair trade. And if the rates became unmanageable, the Dwarves of Erebor would simply walk _around_ Mirkwood in protest, no matter how long it prolonged their travels. And Thranduil would be forced to lower his toll to something more reasonable.

It felt like a win to her. Seeing the slight smile on the Elven-king’s face, she could tell it felt like a win to him, as well. “That is a fair proposition, your Grace,” she said at last. “I will need to take it back to my council, but I believe they will be most amenable to this arrangement.”

Thranduil grinned in full, and lifted his goblet toward her. “Excellent, your Grace. I am glad to hear it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannelís is ironing out (ha, Dwarf pun) policy deals with neighboring royals. Anyway, a secure road system through Mirkwood to facilitate travel and trade sounds like a great first victory as queen-without-a-regent! Hopefully, that will win her some points with everyone who's Team Dáin. Oh, and she has to make a decision about Thorin soon…
> 
> Next up, we have one last jump forward to bring us to the events of the War of the Ring. A mysterious messenger from Mordor is coming to the Lonely Mountain. So that should be interesting!
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed! Thanks for the comments, and please continue letting me know what you think! :)


	27. Dark Tidings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An emissary from Mordor comes seeking information about Bilbo.

In the end, the roads were built, and the toll was paid, and both Mirkwood and Erebor were happier for it. The way west became a good deal safer, and trade boomed in the region. At the same time, regular updates arrived from Khazad-dûm, bringing news of Balin’s success there. His expedition had driven the Orcs from Azanulbizar and settled in the Twenty-first Hall, an old stronghold of the ancient Dwarf-city. Balin took up the throne in the Chamber of Mazarbul and ruled his growing colony as the new Lord of Moria. The Dwarves of Erebor could not be prouder.

At the turn of the millennium, Hannelís decided she had waited long enough. To Dáin’s great delight, she commissioned a contract for her betrothal to Thorin Stonehelm. It was finalized, signed, and witnessed before her whole council a week before her ninetieth birthday. And so, with much to celebrate, Dáin threw Hannelís and Thorin a feast for the ages.

The joy of their betrothal kept Dáin at bay for a time, and he did not press immediately for the marriage. Hannelís silently thanked Legolas for his clever scheme. In one fell swoop, she had succeeded in both getting Dáin off her back, _and_ being able to enjoy her freedom for a little longer. It was not the most honorable thing, entering into a promise to be wed without putting her whole heart into it, keeping one foot out of the door in case she changed her mind…but she was willing to deal with the guilt, so long as Dáin gave her room to breathe.

In 3007, Brand of Dale became king after the passing of his father Bain. By now, the updates from Moria had stopped. It was concerning, this abrupt silence. They did not know what had become of Balin and his expedition. Although it was possible his ravens were all lost, or he had deemed further updates unnecessary…Hannelís and Dáin agreed some darker fate had befallen him. Dwalin held out hope, and continued to speak of Lord Balin and Khazad-dûm as living, breathing realities--but he was alone in that hope.

It was many years before anything of note happened to the Lonely Mountain again. With time, the pressure for Hannelís to make good on her promise to marry Thorin _did_ return--and by 3018, Dáin’s impatience was back in full flame, and his anger with it. Hannelís knew her time was running out. But as fate would have it, a greater matter lingered on the horizon.

The first chill of autumn brought with it a messenger to the Lonely Mountain, an emissary from Mordor. He rode up to the mountain-gate astride a black horse, his dark cloak fluttering in the breeze. With him came the first snow of the season, and Hannelís found it a stark contrast, as she gazed at him from the high battlements. The white flakes whistled around him, bright against the black of his garb and mount. He was unarmed. That was the only reason she granted him entrance.

She knew better than to trust something out of Mordor. She remembered how that dark land plagued Minas Tirith when she dwelled in the White City. Dwalin, too, recalled the Orcs he had pushed back in Osgiliath alongside Thorongil and Denethor some forty years ago.

But this messenger was no Orc. He was a Man out of Harad, hale and bearded with a stately way about him. He _looked_ official, like an ambassador should, even if Hannelís could not shake the feeling that he was false.

She received him in the throne room, flanked by her council and Dáin and Thorin, guards stationed at the door. She meant to intimidate him, but he only gave her a winsome smile and bowed deep. “It is an honor to be in your presence, Queen under the Mountain. Tales of your beauty are not exaggerated.”

Beside her, Dáin swallowed a cough, though Hannelís wondered if he was actually masking something closer to a laugh. By Dwarven standards, she knew she was really nothing much to look at; a Dwarf without a beard was a sad sight indeed. Still, she could do without Dáin confirming that fact.

Hannelís was unimpressed. The emissary would get nowhere by flattering her. “And are tales of your lord’s aggression exaggerated? Or does he continue to make war on the people of Gondor?”

His grin widened, unfazed by her stony response. “My lord only seeks what is already his. The eastern part of that country has long been disputed between us. I assure your Grace, it is Mordor’s by right.”

But he had not come to discuss Gondor. “To what do we owe the honor of Mordor’s attention?”

The messenger dipped his head. “My lord believes you possess vital information concerning something rather dear to him. He is hoping you will pass it along--for payment, of course.”

Hannelís could not imagine what Mordor had that Erebor might want. “And what information is that?”

“Many years ago,” he said, “when this great kingdom was reclaimed from the dragon, your late father assembled a company. And in that company was a halfling from the Shire, called Baggins.”

 _What could Mordor want from Bilbo?_ “And this halfling, he is dear to your lord?”

“He possesses something dear, your Grace,” he answered, “a tool my lord created. Do you know anything of a magic ring?”

Hannelís felt Glóin’s eyes on her, but she did not return his gaze. Yes, she knew of Bilbo’s ring. He had used it to rescue Thorin’s Company from the spiders in Mirkwood, and again to gain access to Smaug’s lair. He had shown it to the Dwarves, on one or two occasions. He was lucky to have found it; it was certainly a handy thing to have around. Hannelís could imagine why Mordor would want it back.

“No,” she lied smoothly, “I know nothing of a ring. The Hobbit was not fond of jewelry.”

“I see.” The messenger did not believe her. Perhaps he had seen Glóin’s glance, or perhaps she was not as good a liar as she thought. “Then can you share more about this…Hobbit,” he said, switching to her terminology, “anything distinguishing about him, his precise whereabouts within the Shire, any further information?”

“I can,” she said, and she waited until he looked pleasantly expectant to add, “but I won’t. We will tell you nothing of him.”

“ _Azbad,_ ” murmured Dáin, stepping closer to the throne. He gave the emissary a gracious nod as he said, “Perhaps we want to hear what Mordor has to offer before we make our decision?”

It was improper for Dáin to question her in an official capacity like this--even more so because the messenger was from Mordor. Erebor must project strength and unity now, not discord. She could not be publicly undermined by her former regent. Hannelís almost rejected his recommendation for that reason alone…but the fear of him arguing further stayed her tongue. “Very well,” she said, nodding to the emissary. “What is your lord’s reward?”

He gave a slight bow. “My lord believes he has something of great value to you. He has come into possession of the three remaining Dwarf-rings. He is more than willing to trade them in exchange for information.”

 _The seven Dwarf-rings._ All Dwarves knew the story. They were gifted to the great Dwarf-lords of each of the seven houses, by some magical figure in the Second Age. The rings granted their bearers enormous power, allowing them to raise immense Dwarf-halls and make their kingdoms prosper.

But the rings were not all good. They planted greed in the heart of the Dwarf-lords, and in time they all amassed immeasurable wealth, the greatest being Thrór’s treasure hoard. Five Dwarven kingdoms fell to dragon-fire, the Lonely Mountain among them. But of those five, only Thrór’s ring survived. He passed it to Thráin, who was still in possession of it when he was lost in Mirkwood more than 150 years ago.

That left two rings. And the third… _Thráin._ Hannelís’ blood went cold. “You found him.” _You_ being Mordor, this lord the messenger kept going on about, _someone_ had found her grandfather. Her voice was little more than a whisper.

The emissary stepped closer. “What was that, your Grace?”

“You found him.” She could hear her voice shaking in anger. “You took the ring from him. Thráin.”

Gasps echoed around the hall as her council pieced together what she had already realized. For the first time, the messenger looked unsure of himself. Fear flickered across his face before he hid it behind a mask of confusion. “Thráin, your Grace? I cannot speak to how my lord acquired the Dwarf-rings--only that he is most eager to make of them a gift to you, your Grace, to this--this splendid Kingdom under the Mountain. He seeks only to _honor_ you--”

“Tell your lord he may keep his honor. I do not want it.” Dáin nodded sharply beside her. At least now, they were in agreement. “We will give you no information. _That_ is our answer.” A fire was rising in her, and she was on her feet, the throne behind her. “And tell your lord that if Mordor ever comes to our door again, it will be war.”

What she really wanted, what her heart wanted more than anything else in that moment, was to slay this miserable messenger where he stood. It would feel like justice, long-delayed, vengeance for her grandfather’s sake. How had they taken it from him, this heirloom of his house, passed to him after Thrór’s murder at Azog’s hand? He would not have relinquished it willingly. She hoped for his sake that the torture had not been long, that death had come swift, a mercy…

Her heart ached for him, this grandfather she had never known. More than ache, it _burned._ “Get out of my sight,” she said, teeth bared. “Leave with your life, and do not return.”

The emissary fled the hall with as much dignity as he could muster, and when the great stone doors were shut, the vast chamber came alive with cries of outrage. “You were too kind, _azbad,_ ” growled Dwalin, his hand twitching toward his ax, “were I in your place, I would have cut him down where he stood.” His face contorted in pain. “To think, after all this time--Thráin--our king--”

Dwalin’s loyalty to the line of Durin ran deep. He had set out with Thráin’s Company initially, long before Thráin ever reached the borders of Mirkwood. He was not even of age, a mere stripling of a Dwarf, but he insisted on venturing out with Thráin and Balin and the others. For years, they were waylaid on their journey east by Orcs and Wargs and other fell things. Finally, Balin made him turn back. He was too young, the risk too great.

Dwalin regretted not being there when Thráin went missing, he had confessed as much to Hannelís before. Perhaps, he thought, he could have made a difference, might have saved him…but even all of Dwalin’s strength and skill and steadfast loyalty had not been enough to save Thorin years later. He had struggled to forgive himself for all the ways he had failed his kings and kin, and now Hannelís watched as that same blame returned in full.

“After all this time,” grunted Dáin, his face dark, “yes, _all this time._ Nearly two hundred years Mordor has concealed this knowledge. The murder of our king, the theft of an ancient heirloom--”

“It _will_ be war,” said Dwalin, “it _must_ be.”

The others roared in assent…all but Hannelís and Oren. The old master of war stroked his beard, his brow pulled together in deep thought. “We must alert our kin in the Iron Hills and Ered Luin, and gather as many fighters to us as possible, and soon.”

“And Khazad-dûm,” said Dwalin, as though Oren had forgotten.

A tense silence washed over them. Yes, there was still the question of Khazad-dûm.

“Indeed,” murmured Oren at last. He continued, half-speaking to himself: “I shall need to meet with King Brand, to alert him to the possibility of battle. If it is to come to that, we should hope he fights alongside us. And we will need to shelter his people in the mountain, Dale is too exposed…”

He looked to Hannelís. It was a moment before she realized he was awaiting her instruction. This was the first time he had deferred to her in this way, instead of going directly to Dáin, even after his regency was ended. Before Dáin could speak, Hannelís hastened to say, “Request a meeting with him today. Be sure he knows it is urgent.”

Oren bowed and exited the hall. Hannelís turned to Torsten, the master of finance. “We will need to keep our food-stores full, in case of a siege. Our suppliers in Dorwinion are at the start of their autumn harvest. We must buy as much as we can from them, and--and we must contact the Elven-king, too. To let him know of the danger, but also to purchase some of his stores.”

Thranduil had kept the refugees of Lake-town and Dáin’s army fed, in the immediate aftermath of the Battle of Five Armies. Mirkwood had vast stores of grain and the like. It would cost Erebor mightily in gold and gems, but it was well worth it. If the Lonely Mountain _was_ besieged, and they played host to the Men of both Dale and Lake-town…they would need to be ready, or they would all starve.

Torsten, too, bowed and followed Oren out of the hall. Now Hannelís turned to Glóin. This was the tricky part. She knew what was _wise,_ even if she loathed it. The Dwarves of Erebor would need to ask for help. And with Gandalf off Mahal knows where, she only knew of one other person in the whole of Middle-earth who seemed to know…well, everything. “Glóin, you and Gimli shall go to Rivendell. You must tell Lord Elrond of this threat from Mordor, and seek his counsel. He will know what to do.” She prayed that was true.

Glóin inclined his head, but Dáin pushed back. “ _Azbad,_ ” he argued, “how can you be certain this Elf-lord will know anything? We are already involving Dale and Mirkwood in this business. It is not wise to share our affairs with everyone.”

“We are _not_ sharing them with everyone,” she answered evenly. “If the Wizard had not brought us to Rivendell, we never would have deciphered Thrór’s map, and we would not be standing in Erebor now. Lord Elrond is not just anyone.”

She could hardly believe she was defending an Elf to Dáin. Indeed, he was staring at her like she had never looked _less_ like a Dwarf. “In any case,” she continued, “there is still the matter of Khazad-dûm.” She looked back at Glóin, taking care to avoid Dwalin’s gaze. She did not want to see the hope there, the belief that Balin and the others were yet alive. “After meeting with Elrond, send word with his recommendation and then go south, to search for Balin’s expedition. Do all you can to find an answer.”

Glóin bowed with a quick, “ _Azbad,_ ” before leaving the hall.

“Thank you, _azbad,_ ” breathed Dwalin, and when she looked at him, his eyes were shining. In that moment, he had so much faith in her, in Balin, in the belief that all would be well. He needed to believe that, until the truth proved otherwise. His love for his brother was so pure, it made Hannelís want to weep.

Hannelís let out a long, trembling breath. Only now did she feel how hard her heart was pounding. For the first time in her reign, the possibility of war loomed like a shadow, threatening to cast them all into darkness. She thought of her people, her home, of all that must be protected--not only Erebor, but Dale and Lake-town, even Mirkwood. The weight of her responsibility was suffocating. It was terrifying, what lay before her now. And a not-small part of her would rather run, leave and never look back.

“ _Azbad._ ” It was Dáin. He pulled her out of her thoughts. She could see in his eyes…he recognized her fear. There was a glint there, a shimmer of something. Of opportunity.

He stepped forward and put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Come,” he said, “there is much to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannelís is going into full-on panic mode, and Dáin is sensing an opportunity. Anyway, now Glóin and Gimli are heading to Rivendell…but will they go alone? [TV announcer voice] Find out in the next episode of QUEEN UNDER THE MOUNTAIN!
> 
> I hope you all have a good, safe start to 2021. As always, please let me know what you think :)


	28. The Treason Clause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the day Gimli and Glóin depart for Rivendell, Hannelís learns something terrible.

There was a clause in her betrothal contract, hidden among pages of terms and answers to vague eventualities. If it bothered Dáin, he did not mention it; he was more concerned with ensuring the crown passed directly to Thorin in the event of Hannelís dying in childbirth, or pushing for the crown matrimonial outright.

The clause was simple, really: if either Dáin or Thorin made any attempt against Hannelís’ life or reign, the contract would immediately be voided. This included after their marriage; if at any time, past or present, proof of such an attempt arose, their betrothal and marriage would be considered invalid.

It was Dís who insisted on the clause, once Dáin raised the issue of the crown matrimonial. Such power granted Thorin the right of full kingship, instead of the diminished status of consort. Dís was concerned--rightfully, in Dwalin’s opinion--that once Hannelís and Thorin married, there would be nothing keeping Dáin from launching an all-out coup. The clause was insurance against that. Dáin could not act against Hannelís _and_ keep his son in power. At least, that was the idea in theory.

The morning after the terrible messenger from Mordor appeared at Erebor’s gates, Glóin and Gimli were set to depart the mountain for Rivendell. They would sail down the Long Lake before making the trek through Mirkwood and crossing over the Misty Mountains through the High Pass. Depending on how much snow had blanketed those lofty climes, the journey would take three, perhaps four weeks. One month there, one month back. They would have Lord Elrond’s answer long before the emissary ever reached Mordor’s borders.

Hannelís hurried through the twisting halls that led to Thorin’s chambers. He had been up late drinking with Gimli, toasting his friend’s special quest in some dark pub in Dale. Thorin was missed at breakfast. With a laugh, Gimli remarked that a hangover was most likely to blame. And so, while Gimli and his father made their final preparations, Hannelís went to fetch Thorin, so he could say one last good-bye to his dearest friend.

His door was just barely ajar, and Hannelís had her hand on the knob when she heard Thorin say, “For fuck’s sake, Abba, can’t this wait? My head is pounding.”

Hannelís froze. She knew she shouldn’t eavesdrop, however tempting it may be. She had resolved to announce her presence when Dáin responded: “There is no time to lose. If we are to do this, we must begin the planning _now._ ”

Perhaps it actually _was_ best to wait and listen, she decided. “You already botched it before,” said Thorin, “what makes you think now will be any different?”

“How could I have foreseen that bear mutant would intervene? Nearly two dozen of them, I hired--she would be long dead by now if that damn thing hadn’t been so near.”

Hannelís backed away from the door, her heart thudding in her chest. _Beorn. The brigands._ She was not sure she wanted to hear more. It was dangerous, what she was overhearing. Dáin was openly discussing how he had attempted to have her and Dwalin assassinated--and Thorin _knew._ Suddenly, she wished she had Orcrist with her. She hadn’t passed another Dwarf in these halls for ages. If they walked out now, and found her here, listening…

“This is our chance,” Dáin was saying. “Many die in war. Her damned father couldn’t even survive it, what makes you think she will fare any better?”

Thorin’s answer was sharp: “Thorin was a good Dwarf, Abba, you dishonor his memory.”

But Dáin would not hear it. “Thorin was a fool. He thought fourteen Dwarves and a Hobbit could conquer a mountain. Think of Lake-town, of how many lives his madness cost. To say nothing of him siring that fucking half-breed--”

Hannelís’ hands formed fists at her side. She knew she should leave now--she had already heard enough to damn Dáin twice over, to end the betrothal and have them _both_ executed for treason. But something rooted her there, wanting to hear more. “She is our queen, Abba!”

“She is no queen of mine,” spat Dáin. “The people want _you,_ Thorin, not her. I would have you take the throne for your _own,_ not--not sit at her side and sully our bloodline with her filth. _This_ is our opportunity. In the heat of battle, anyone can be an enemy. We will mourn her, and lament that she died too soon, and then we will _have_ it, what is rightfully ours, by the pureness of _our_ line--”

“Enough, Abba.” At least Thorin had the grace to sound disgusted. He may not have as low a view of her as his father…but he was still entertaining the idea of regicide, simply by allowing this conversation to continue.

Hannelís felt sick. She could not stomach everything she was feeling at once. Fear, betrayal, wrath, hurt…the anger was the loudest of all. She had never hated Dáin more, but another hate was rising in her, a bitter resentment for Erebor, for her own people, whose distrust and disdain of her had enabled her regent and cousin to plot against her.

But as soon as she thought that, guilt hit her in a wave. She was Erebor’s queen; she could never hate her people. The shame was overwhelming. Perhaps it was herself she hated most of all. She deserved Dáin’s contempt and more, if she could not even find it within herself to love her own kingdom.

There was a rustling inside the room, as though Thorin or Dáin were moving closer to the door. Hannelís could not wallow in our own thoughts any longer. As quietly as she could manage, she dashed down the hall and flew through the mountain until at last she reached her chambers. Once there, she shut the door hard and leaned against it. Slowly, she caught her breath. But she could feel herself shaking. The fear was returning now.

_This is our chance._

Only half-aware of her actions, Hannelís pulled her pack off its hook and threw it on her bed. Moving fast, she went through her drawers and chests, unearthing tunics and trousers and socks. Two daggers. Orcrist. A water-skin. She shoved as much as she could into the pack, and when it was full, she did her best to fasten it shut with trembling hands.

_In the heat of battle, anyone can be an enemy._

Torchlight glinted off of something on her nightstand. Hannelís glanced over reflexively--and there it was: Kíli’s rune. _Innikh dê. Return to me._ But she did not trust that she would be returning.

She dressed quickly in traveling-clothes and gathered up the rune, cradling it to her chest. She hitched the pack high on her shoulder, and then the door was opening. Hannelís’ heart threatened to stop entirely--but it was only Jórunn, who seemed surprised to see the Dwarf-queen back in her chambers so soon after breakfast.

“ _Azbad,_ ” she murmured with a bow. After a moment, she seemed to register Hannelís’ distress, and she stopped closer. “Are you well? Has something happened?”

Hannelís willed herself to swallow down her panic. She needed to be careful now. She could not appear too unnerved, lest Jórunn grow too concerned and raise the alarm when her queen… _well, the alarm will be raised soon enough._ “Have my horse saddled and brought to the gate,” she said. “I am going riding.”

She saw how Jórunn’s eyes flitted to the pack on her back, and she imagined her handmaid was wondering _where_ exactly she was riding, and for how long. But instead of question her, she bowed again and said, “Yes, _azbad._ ”

There was one more thing Hannelís needed to do before she could meet Jórunn at the gate. As she half-ran through the tunnels, her mind swam with thoughts she had tried to never think. She had made a point to bury them, to lock them up deep underground where no light would ever reach them. But now they roared back to life in full, echoing through her head like the red-hot crackling of dragon-fire.

Dáin was right. Her people did not want her, had never wanted her. And Hannelís had never wanted this either, not on these terms. As a child, she had always known she was destined for the crown--but if she ever sat Erebor’s throne, it would be long, long in the future, after her father had ruled for decades, a century even. She would step into her queenship when she was _ready,_ with Fíli and Kíli at her side.

For the first time in a long time, Hannelís wished she had died all those years ago. Perhaps Óin and Dwalin and the others should have let her father’s dreams die with him--with her. Perhaps she was _meant_ to die then, to never be queen at all. Perhaps fate _wanted_ Dáin. He was the natural leader, not her. Maybe _he_ was what Mahal wanted. Perhaps Mahal thought her sullied, too.

Hannelís knocked on the door first, then pounded. She kept beating her first against the wood until suddenly it gave way and Dís was there, wide-eyed. “Lís--” she began, but Hannelís was already thrusting the green rune into her hand.

“I should have returned this a long time ago.” As she said it, Hannelís finally registered the lump in her throat. She was on the verge of tears. She shut her eyes and breathed deep, trying her best to lock the grief up again.

A long silence passed before Dís spoke. “Why are you giving me this?” Hannelís opened her eyes. Her aunt stared at her looking stricken, as though Hannelís had slapped her.

“It’s _yours,_ ” she said through the tears, “I should have--it belongs to you, please, forgive me--”

“Where are you going?” _Ah._ Her aunt had always been wiser than she let on, more perceptive than she seemed. Already, she could see the truth of Hannelís’ heart, even if Hannelís was only just beginning to see it herself.

“I don’t know,” she lied. She knew exactly where she was going. She just could not risk anyone following. “I cannot stay here.”

Dís considered her for a long, horrible moment. Then, with so much care, she reached for her niece’s hand and set the rune in her palm. “Take it.”

Hannelís shook her head, hot tears running down her cheeks. “I cannot--”

Dís wrapped her hands around hers and squeezed tight. “ _Take_ it, Lís. For me. Promise me--”

“I do not deserve it!” she shouted, the sharpness in her voice shocking Dís into silence. She tried to push the rune back into her aunt’s hands, but she would not accept it, and Hannelís’ fingers were too slow--it clattered loudly to the stone floor, sending echoes shooting through the hall.

Both Dwarrows stared at the rune. The sound of it hitting the ground rang in Hannelís’ ears still, long after the echoes stopped. It was deafening. She could not stay here without it destroying her. Without even meeting her aunt’s gaze, Hannelís tore down the tunnel, hurtling herself toward the mountain-gate as fast as her legs would carry her.

The gate was open when she skidded to a halt in front of it, but Gimli and Glóin were nowhere to be found. Already, Jórunn was there, Hannelís’ horse saddled beside her. And Thorin--Thorin and Dáin were there, too, looking on her sudden appearance with surprise.

“You just barely missed them,” said Thorin, smiling at her.

It did something to her, that grin of his. Made her fear abate, just a little, leaving space for the anger to return. _He would plan my death one minute, and be all sweetness the next._ She had never truly hated Thorin until this moment.

She could see his smile turn, as he took in her attire and the stuffed pack in her hands. She swung the pack over her horse’s saddle and secured it, refusing to meet either Thorin or Dáin’s eyes. She vaulted into the saddle and adjusted Orcrist, fastened at her hip. Only then did she look down at the two Dwarves.

Thorin’s eyes were fixed on Orcrist. “Lís…” He frowned up at her. “Where are you going?”

But Hannelís had eyes only for Dáin. Her former regent glowered, suspicion heavy on his countenance. “I trust you will keep the throne warm, cousin,” she said, gathering the reins in her hands.

The loathing was plain in Dáin now. No longer did he seek to hide it. Without breaking eye contact, he raised his voice sharply: “Close the gate. The queen is not well. She must not be allowed to leave.”

No sooner had he given the order to shut the gate than Hannelís spurred her horse into a gallop, clearing the great stone gate in an instant. At once, Dáin called for the sentries to halt, but she could still hear the massive doors closing. There was so much weight behind them, they were nearly halfway closed by the time she slowed her horse and turned back toward the Lonely Mountain.

Dáin stood there between the half-shut gate, watching her in a mixture of anger and disbelief. Beyond him, Thorin and Jórunn craned their necks to get a clear look at her, and behind _them,_ even more Dwarves were gathering.

 _There is no turning back now._ “Do not pretend you aren’t pleased,” said Hannelís, directing her words at Dáin. The words spilled from her lips, hot and bitter. “Is this not what you’ve always desired? My absence, while you play king. I have only ever ruined your plots for power.”

He said nothing, but his face hardened, the wrath giving way to cold stone. Thorin paled beside his father, a look of deep regret passing over his features. _Good._ She was glad for his shame. _He deserves it._

She dug her heels into her horse once more, and then they were flying across the rocky plain, down the wide slope that separated Erebor from Dale. Only when she reached the city’s outer walls did she permit herself to look back. Erebor’s gate was closed. There was a permanence to the way the stone doors held together now, as though they would never part for her again. She thought that perhaps that was a good thing.

She wove through the streets of Dale on her horse, looking everywhere for Glóin and Gimli. She nearly ran them down in the center of the city, so hurried was she to reach the docks before their boat left. Gimli let out an _oh!_ as she brought her horse to a halt in front of them and their ponies.

The suddenness of her arrival spooked their ponies, and Glóin had to hold tight to his reins to keep his pony from bolting. But once that was done, he bowed low and asked with great surprise, “To what do we owe this honor, _azbad_?”

Hannelís dismounted and patted her horse’s neck. “I am coming with you. To Rivendell.”

A smile burst across Gimli’s face, but Glóin’s response was more cautious. “You honor us, _azbad,_ ” he repeated evenly, “but I wonder, is it wise to leave Erebor at such a time as this?”

“Erebor is in capable hands,” she replied. Her tone plainly said she would say no more.

Hannelís knew Glóin wanted to press the issue. She could see the concern in his eyes; even Gimli was beginning to share some of his father’s unease. But instead of questioning her further, Glóin only sighed. “Very well. Then let us be on our way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (That "Asshole Dáin Ironfoot" tag isn't there for nothing!) Recovery isn't linear, and although Hannelís has tried very hard to want this life she's landed in…she still has a lot to work through. She's casually getting retraumatized by her wannabe-assassin cousin and, well, she would rather be anywhere else than the site of basically every bad thing that's ever befallen her.
> 
> Big s/o to Ellie (ohelrond) for helping me work through ideas for this chapter and beyond. It was tricky getting Hannelís out of the mountain in a realistic way when war with Mordor is brewing…but there's stuff to do, and people to meet (and re-meet, in the case of Aragorn). Next up: the Dwarves arrive in Rivendell!
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think :)


	29. Dreams of Dragon-fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannelís is haunted by her dreams on the High Pass. The Dwarves arrive in Rivendell.

Night found her back in her old chambers in Erebor--the small room where she had first awoken after death failed to claim her, the place where she had kicked and thrashed until she tore herself open anew, where her throat was burned raw by the grief that threatened to consume her.

She was back in her old chambers, and she was just a child, a Dwarfling again. Sleep came fitfully. It was like she knew somehow, in some dark corner of her mind, what was coming. She tossed and turned until she woke with a start as screams filled the mountain. Across the room, the flames crackled and grew, spurred by the encroaching doom. Flames leapt from the fireplace to the armchair, and from the chair to the bed frame. At once, the canopy around her came alive with fire.

Hannelís jumped out from under her covers before the flames could lick at her feet. She ran to the door and flung it open. Outside were her people--all the Dwarves who had journeyed from Ered Luin and the Iron Hills, even the Dwarflings who would not be born for decades yet. They were all fleeing something terrible.

“What is it?” she shouted to the panicked masses hurrying past her door, but they did not answer. “What is happening?”

A great roar sounded as a wave of monstrous, white-hot flames rounded the corner, pursuing the Dwarves of Erebor with a hunger that could not be sated. And Hannelís no longer needed an answer.

 _Smaug._ The dragon was come. He had not died at the hand of one small, black arrow. That was not enough to kill a dragon. No, Smaug had returned--stronger this time, and filled with fury.

Hannelís had never seen so much fire, not even as Lake-town burned that horrible night atop the Long Lake. These flames were different. They blinded her and turned her vision red. Already her skin boiled and blistered. She rushed after her people, after those who had followed her here out of loyalty to her and her father and Dáin--here, _here,_ to their doom.

 _I should have known._ She should have known peace would never last under the mountain, for a dragon will guard his hoard as long as he lives, and ever after. She should have known she was leading her people to ruin. The end came swiftly as her world was enveloped in flame.

Hannelís awoke with a start, drenched in sweat. The Beornings’ lodge had overheated in the night, so zealous were they in protecting against the cold on the High Pass. Underneath her leather armor, her flesh was burning. Hannelís peeled off layer after layer, until she was left in her tunic and cotton under-shorts. She tied her long, tangled curls high above her neck, but it didn’t help. The heat was still unbearable. Desperate, she stepped silently around the still, sleeping forms of her companions and slipped out into the howling wind.

To the east, the faintest beginnings of light were spilling over the horizon. The snow nearest to the coming sunrise, far from where Hannelís stood now, glowed purple-pink, a herald of the morn. Soon, at least, Glóin and Gimli would rise and they would be on their way. They were close to Rivendell now. The High Pass had given them trouble, the densely-packed snow making for slow going across the Misty Mountains. Depending on how long they were in Rivendell, they might even need to take the Redhorn Pass on the return journey. Before long, the High Pass would be, well, impassable.

But the end was in sight. Already, the descent had begun; this last lodging was built into a rocky downward slope, the start of the final leg of the crossing. Grimbeorn the Old, heir to the late Beorn, had escorted them the whole way. Although Dwarves loved all mountains, it was more what was _under_ those mountains that truly felt like home. These steep, frozen climes were the domain of the Beornings. This was where they thrived.

Hannelís stood in the icy wind, exhaling slowly as her skin slowly cooled. But the wind alone was not enough. The flames of Erebor raged in her still, the haunted images in her dream painted on the inside of her eyelids. She scooped up a handful of snow and held it to the nape of her neck, and that helped more. But then she blinked, and Smaug came alive in her mind, and she stepped off the sheltered deck, her bare feet sinking into the snow.

Soon, she was shivering, but she did not move. The cold was better than the heat. Ice was kinder than fire. It stung, but not in the same way…and after a while, the pain dulled. She stood there in the snow, hugging her sides tight and willing herself to forget the horror and dragon-fire. She might have stayed like that until the others awoke--but she was not alone.

“You’ll lose your toes, doing that.”

Hannelís flinched at the low, rumbling voice and turned: it was Grimbeorn, bearing a great armful of chopped wood to add to the fire. Hannelís eyed the wood warily. The cold might harm her, but she did not _want_ the warmth, not now. Grimbeorn was massive, taller than any Man she had ever seen, just like his father. He wore a dense beard that was already half-silver; he was not known as Grimbeorn the _Old_ for nothing.

The Beorning _looked_ his age, and for a moment, that thought made Hannelís feel…lonely. On one hand, she _felt_ like a Dwarf. Khuzdul had been her cradle-tongue. Mahal was her Vala. She _was_ Dwarvish…but not entirely. She did not _look_ enough like a Dwarf. She had Dís and Kíli’s eyes, but beyond that she favored her mother, her father had always said so. She had no beard. And she did not _look_ like a Dwarrow nearing 110.

She thought of Thorongil, wherever he was. He would be an gray and wrinkled now, if he was still alive. And if Hannelís was fully Mannish, she would look old by now, too--or, more likely, already dead some thirty years. She did not _fit._ She was not a proper Dwarrow _or_ woman. She was just…alone. Perhaps she did not really belong anywhere.

Grimbeorn gave a deep _hmm._ “Come,” he said, when she remained silent. He nodded toward the door. “A blanket will do you good. I am brewing tea. Drink that; it will warm you.”

He was her host. And so, to not be rude, Hannelís thanked him and came inside. She pulled on her socks and trousers and sat by the fire, rubbing her toes through the wool until the numbness went away. Grimbeorn brought her a cup of tea that was nearly the size of her head--and, true to his word, it did warm her from the inside out. Like his father, Grimbeorn’s company was easy and quiet, hospitable yet in a distant way. She was grateful for his silence.

It was a wonder, descending from the mountains. Even in her dark mood, her head thick with memories of dragon-fire, Hannelís could not help but appreciate the way the world seemed to turn from winter back to autumn. The snow thinned more and more until finally, in the early afternoon, the Dwarves stepped out onto thawed, green earth.

The Vale of Imladris was brimming with warm, vibrant reds and yellows and oranges. Leaves fell in lazy circles to the ground, or on Gimli’s helm, or Hannelís’ shoulder. The air felt cleaner here. There was a quality, a sweet freshness, that filled her lungs and lightened her spirits. In Rivendell, she did not feel quite so hopeless.

Lord Elrond received them at the end of the long bridge that soared over the thundering Bruinen. In truth, Hannelís thought he seemed displeased about the Dwarves arriving at his home, but he hid it well beneath a cloak of grace and welcome. Strangely, he did not ask _why_ they had come. Perhaps he had much on his mind…or perhaps he simply wanted to grant them rest before the questions began.

The kind Elf-lord passed along directions to an Elf called Lindir, and the Dwarves were promptly shown to one of Elrond’s guest-houses where they could rest before dinner. Lindir even offered to find a gown for Hannelís, if the Dwarf-queen had not come ready with more formal clothes. She took him up on the offer, regretting how quickly she had packed in Erebor. She _was_ still a queen, even if she felt like one half in exile; she ought to keep looking the part.

While Gimli and Glóin settled into their rooms, Hannelís drew herself a hot bath. When she was young, Hannelís had loved baths--the hotter, the better. She had even looked forward to this aspect of Rivendell, the chance to scrub off the road after weeks of travel. The water did not feel too hot to the touch, but when Hannelís was fully immersed, she found she could not bear the heat. If she closed her eyes, it felt like molten rock. She could almost imagine her skin turning bright red, burning so terribly until at last it sloughed off, leaving nothing but bone.

Suddenly, she could not breathe. The air was stifling. She pushed herself out of the bath as quickly as she could, standing so fast it made her head spin. She pulled a towel tight around her and sank onto the cool, stone windowsill. Try as she might, she could not stop trembling. She hugged her knees to her chest and clamped her eyes shut and scrunched up her face and did all she could to still herself…but the panic was overwhelming.

 _It was the steam,_ she thought, rocking gently. The water was too hot, it made the air too thick, _that_ was why she felt this way. It wasn’t the way the heat made her remember her nightmare, nor the memories her nightmare had dredged from the deep corners of her mind.

Hannelís had done her best, over the years, not to dwell on Smaug and the battle that had claimed her father and kin. She remembered Thorin and Fíli and Kíli--she loved sharing stories with Dís and Dwalin, and even Dáin had a tale or two to tell her, from the old days when he and Thorin had fought alongside one another at Azanulbizar.

She _wanted_ to remember them…but there were things she would rather forget, things it would be _best_ to forget. The horror of dragon-fire was one of them. And the soul-crushing grief she had felt in the wake of her kin’s death, along with what that grief had driven her to…that was another. It felt wiser, safer to avoid such thoughts. But her dream had brought them back to the forefront of her mind.

 _I did not want to die then, not really._ She had not wanted to be parted from them. She had not wanted to be alone.

But she _felt_ alone now. There was the remnant of Thorin’s Company that remained in Erebor, Glóin and Dwalin and a handful of the others. And there was Dís, who loved Hannelís desperately, who had stayed in that mountain of death for her sake only. But her support in the Lonely Mountain was dwindling. _It was never about supporting_ me, _anyway._ Their hearts had always followed Thorin.

Rebuilding Erebor was Thorin’s dream, the desperate vision he died for. And it _was_ rebuilt, against all hope.

 _Thorin was a fool._ Dáin’s words echoed in her mind. A fool’s hope, that’s what it was. For what was a small company of Dwarves against the wrath of a dragon? Without the Bowman and his black arrow, Smaug would have smote them all, hunted each last survivor of Lake-town and perhaps raze Mirkwood for good measure. _Think of how many lives his madness cost._ A mad, foolish hope, indeed.

Anger pricked at her heart, and sorrow, too. _We were happy in Ered Luin._ They had built a good, hard-won life there--expanded the old Dwarven-halls until they were greater than ever before, mastered the land and formed a hearty friendship with the Men who dwelled there. Dís had not wanted them to leave. She had warred mightily with Thorin over his desire for more, for what he called _home._ Ered Luin had _become_ their home, but he refused to see it.

The grief welled in her then, as she imagined what their lives might have been like, had fate been kinder. Had her father been less bitter, more yielding. She could have kept him in her life a little longer, him and Fíli and Kíli. They _should_ have been in her life for decades yet, but Hannelís would settle now for _just_ one more year, just one more day. She resented her father for dooming her to a world without him. And she hated herself for thinking that.

Then Lindir was there, informing her that her gown had arrived. “I have set it on your bed, your Grace,” he said through the door. “I was not sure what style or color you would like best, but Lord Elrond’s daughter was pleased to offer you one of her favorites. If it is not to your liking, I will gladly find you something else.”

By the time he was done, Hannelís was just glad the talking had stopped. “Thank you, I am certain it will be perfect.” If the gown came from Elrond’s daughter, it would _have_ to be perfect; Hannelís would not want to insult her. She waited until she was sure Lindir was gone before returning to her bed-chamber, still wrapped in her towel.

Lord Elrond’s daughter had chosen a velvet gown in a deep blue, with flowing crimson sleeves and golden detailing. Unlike Dwarven gowns, which tied at the front, this gown laced up the back, and Hannelís had to ask Gimli for help. When every last bit was fastened and in its proper place, Gimli did his best not to laugh. Hannelís looked at the mirror, wincing; the skirts were at least six inches too long, gathering pitifully around her feet.

Glóin walked in, fidgeting with his belt so that it sat just right on his doublet. He came to an abrupt halt as he saw Hannelís in her Elven garb, and she could see him struggling to find something complimentary to say. His queen had opted to leave half of her hair down, only braiding the top, to mirror the style of the Elves. She could only imagine how _un_ Dwarvish she looked. “ _Azbad,_ you look…”

“Ridiculous,” said Hannelís, “I know.” She gathered up the skirts as best she could. “Well,” she sighed, steeling herself, “let us go dine with some Elves.”

Nearly eighty years had passed since they were last in Rivendell, but Hannelís and Glóin found the feasting-hall easily, Gimli following close behind. Hannelís could barely remember the girl she had been when she first laid eyes on this place. But at least Rivendell did not change. That was, perhaps, the one thing she could appreciate about the Elves.

As they stepped into the airy hall, Hannelís quickly realized they were not _really_ dining with _Elves._ Lord Elrond was there, of course, and there were Elves serving the food and playing the harp…but those seated at the table were not Elves.

Gandalf was the first she saw. _Oh, fuck._ She tried not to look too dismayed to see him--but he did not make the same attempt. When he cast his gaze on the Dwarves, he sputtered on his pipe almost like he was choking, before frowning and turning to mutter something at Elrond. The Elf-lord gave him what appeared to be a patient reply, though it did nothing to soothe the Wizard’s disturbed countenance.

At the sound of the doors opening, a wrinkled, white-haired Hobbit turned around in his chair. Hannelís peered at him for a long moment before recognition hit them both. “Bilbo!” she cried in delight, forgetting all sense of decorum and rushing to greet him.

“ _Hannelís,_ is that you?” shouted Bilbo, laughing as she half-lifted him off the ground in her haste to embrace him. When the hug ended and they looked at each other again, there were tears in both of their eyes. Then Glóin was there to embrace the Hobbit himself, and he _did_ lift him into the air, spinning him around before setting him back on his feet.

“What are you doing in Rivendell?” asked Hannelís, beaming. It was so _good_ to see him after so very long.

“Oh, oh, enjoying my retirement,” the Hobbit said happily, and they all laughed at that; aside from the quest, Bilbo had never worked a day in his life.

“Oh, my dear,” he sighed, patting her hand. Too soon, his smile was fading and his face turned regretful. “I always meant to say good-bye, you know. I sat at your bedside after, waiting for you to wake up, but before long, it was time to go.” He nodded back toward the Wizard as though to say, Gandalf _decided_ it was time to go, which Hannelís had no hard time believing was the case.

Her heart twisted at his words. There was no doubt what he meant. It _had_ hurt, when she woke up all those years ago, after the horrible shock of her survival had faded and she realized Bilbo had left while she was still unconscious. He had meant so much to her father--had meant so much to _her,_ because of what he’d meant to _him…_ she could not help but feel abandoned.

“But oh, my dear,” he repeated, shaking his head as the smile returned, “if only he could see you now. Queen under the Mountain. Thorin would be so very proud of you, Hannelís.”

 _Mahal, preserve me._ It took all she had not to let the guilt consume her right there. If only Bilbo knew how she had fled Erebor, forsaken it with war on the horizon. If only he knew her dream, and the horrible thoughts that plagued her. _Well,_ she thought with a glance toward Lord Elrond, at least where the Lonely Mountain was concerned, Bilbo would know soon enough.

“Forgive me, dear,” squeaked Bilbo, remembering himself. “I am being terribly rude. I _must_ introduce you to my friends.”

It was then that Hannelís noticed the four other Hobbits seated at the table. They were Frodo Baggins, Meriadoc Brandybuck, Peregrin Took, and Samwise Gamgee. According to Bilbo, they had come to Rivendell on an urgent mission of secrecy--and when he said this, Gandalf scowled at the excited, old Hobbit while Lord Elrond could only shake his head wearily.

“And what are you doing here?” Bilbo asked after his long introductions had finally reached their end. By now, they were all seated together at the table, enjoying the famous hospitality of Lord Elrond’s halls. Unlike Thranduil’s beloved Dorwinion wine, the vintage here was much less potent, though Pippin seemed nonetheless affected by the five empty goblets in front of him. And, also unlike Thranduil and the Wood-elves of Mirkwood, Lord Elrond served vegetarian fare. At least Glóin and Hannelís knew to expect this; Gimli, on the other hand, was horribly disappointed.

“We are come to share some news, concerning Erebor and Mordor,” said Hannelís, directing her words toward Lord Elrond, “and to seek counsel.”

Both Gandalf and the Elf-lord reacted visibly to this, alarm igniting their features. Lord Elrond leaned forward. “Please, your Grace,” he said, making no attempt to conceal the urgency in his voice, “what is this news?”

Hannelís looked to Glóin. _She_ could answer the Elf-lord’s question, of course; it had been directed at her, in any case. But Glóin was Erebor’s ambassador. This entire journey was so that he could fulfill the duty Hannelís had set upon him. And so, fulfill it he did: “An emissary of Mordor came to Erebor, seeking information about a Hobbit. Bilbo.”

At his name, Bilbo sat up straight, looking fearful. Glóin continued somewhat apologetically: “They had gotten his name somehow, and they knew of his magic ring. The emissary said his lord would gift us the three surviving Dwarf-rings, if only we told him what we knew.” With a glance at Hannelís, he finished, “Our queen sent him away, and told him that if he returned, it would be war. And so the Lonely Mountain is preparing itself now, should such a need arise.”

The hall was silent as Lord Elrond considered this new information. At last, the Wizard spoke, directing his words at Hannelís for the first time. “And why have you abandoned your people in these dire times, your Grace?”

His judgment was harsh, but fair. Still, it twisted in her gut like a knife. “Dáin was my regent,” she answered, doing her best to keep her tone even despite the rush of guilt, “and a lord in his own right. He is more than capable of defending Erebor until my return.”

Glóin and Gimli exchanged uneasy glances. They had tried to have this very conversation with her many times over the past month, but she had refused them every time. Seeing their shared looks, the Wizard seemed to sense that. So, too, did he sense that Hannelís would not say more--not now, nor here, at least. And so all he did was grumble into his pipe, and send a great puff of smoke into the air, and said no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really enjoying writing this part of the story. I always knew it was coming, but it's very satisfying walking Hannelís through this crossroads she's found herself in. She's beginning to see Thorin in a new (perhaps more realistic) light, struggling with his dream for her vs. what her own goals and desires might be, all while thrust into a political crisis that's reignited past traumas--oh, AND there's war brewing. She's very conflicted, but she needs to make a choice soon. She's been putting off making decisions for decades, hoping that she could ignore them or that her problems would solve themselves…but nope! It's time to choose!
> 
> Anyway, next up: Hannelís seeks counsel from Gandalf and Lord Elrond--about her own issues, not Erebor's. Also, the Council of Elrond approaches, which means more cool folks will be descending on Rivendell soon…including a certain ex-friend/lover who abruptly ghosted her in the 2980s.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, and please let me know what you think! :)


	30. The Death of Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf and Hannelís discuss her queenly predicament.

When the food was finished and Lord Elrond’s wine cask had run dry, the evening turned to music and stories. It was nice for a while--the Hobbits shared many rousing drinking songs Hannelís had never heard, and Bilbo had spent much of his time in Rivendell perfecting his poetry. She was just beginning to really enjoy herself when Pippin asked for a retelling of Bilbo’s journey with Thorin’s Company. What better opportunity, he said, with Glóin and Hannelís and Gandalf all there to supplement the old Hobbit’s memory.

But Hannelís had no interest in recalling such tales, not with the weight of her dreams and dark thoughts pressing down on her. She did her best to hide the way she grimaced at Pippin’s suggestion. Once Bilbo had begun the story with a grin, the Dwarf-queen took her leave with as much grace as she could muster.

She wandered through the open halls of Rivendell, the moon glowing high above her. Fallen leaves lay scattered along the stone walkways, the occasional crunch the only sound accompanying her on her way. At last, she stopped at a balcony built out over a branch of the Bruinen, the water flowing underneath before disappearing into some unseen part of the valley. Leaves mingled with the moon there, swirling around the celestial reflection before being washed away downstream.

“It seems there was more to be said of Dáin tonight.”

Gandalf appeared beside her, a trail of pipe-smoke following. Irritation tugged at her, but she concealed it well, keeping her eyes fixed on the dancing leaves below.

She did not want to speak to the Wizard about this. Lord Elrond’s counsel, perhaps, she might seek, but not Gandalf’s. She did not trust him. Nor did she _like_ him. And the feeling was mutual. Yet as the minutes stretched in determined silence, with the Wizard showing no sign of departing any time soon…Hannelís found herself answering him. “He tried to have me killed.”

She would not look at him, but she felt Gandalf’s gaze shift from the river to her in something close to alarm. “It was years ago. When I returned from Gondor.” This time, she _did_ look at the Wizard, who appeared most disturbed. “He hired Men from Dale to pose as…brigands, or whatever. They ambushed us outside of Mirkwood. We probably would have died, if Beorn hadn’t been there. He thought _you_ would be with us, too.”

Gandalf furrowed his brow, and Hannelís silently counted herself lucky she was not the target of the fearsome mask of anger that covered his face now. She looked back at the river and inhaled deep before continuing: “He hoped it would be…a horrible tragedy, or an act of war, maybe, Dale killing his queen. And the throne would finally be his.”

She dug a fingernail into the wooden railing, watching as a chip of paint came free and fell into the running water. As she recalled Dáin’s words, her heart rose in her chest, sitting uncomfortably close to her throat. It was making it harder to breathe, remembering the panic she’d felt in Erebor then. “Thorin knew. I heard them together, he-- _Dáin,_ he said going to war with Mordor was good, actually, because…it meant I could be slain on the battlefield, by his hand or another’s, and no one would know they’d planned it.”

Little flakes of paint continued floating down to the river below. Hannelís watched each of them fall. She couldn’t bring herself to look away from them. She thought if she did, she might come apart at the seams. She sucked in another trembling breath, and at last she heard them, the betrayer tears, creeping into her voice. “I always thought the worst thing about Dáin was how he wanted to force my hand, to wed his son, and--and he never wanted that. Maybe he thought it was better than nothing, at least his son would be king _somehow,_ but…he hates me. He wishes I were dead. He wishes I _had_ died.” _And I_ should _have._

Hannelís thought that last part, those last four words, she had not said out loud. She _thought_ she had only thought them. But then the Wizard’s reprimand came crashing down upon her: “Do not say such things. There is no use tormenting yourself over what _should_ have been. Whatever happened, happened, and that was how fate saw fit to make it. It is not given to you to decide what was meant to be.”

“Fate,” she said bitterly. She could feel the tears on her cheeks, but she did not care enough to wipe them away. “ _It is not given to you to decide,_ ” she repeated, unable to hide the mocking edge in her voice. “Fuck that. I am a queen. Some would say it is my _right_ to decide.”

“Fate is greater than any crown, your Grace.” Hannelís scoffed and rolled her eyes, but Gandalf only continued: “It is said that when Arda was created, Eru Ilúvatar wove the entire story of his creation into a great song, unto the very breaking of the world. None have the power to change what has already been sung--not even queens.”

At least her tears had stopped. No longer did Hannelís feel frightened or grieved, but _angry._ “That’s ridiculous,” she said, turning to face the Wizard in full. “If Eru _knew_ his whole creation from the very beginning, then why did he not prevent Mahal from fashioning the Dwarves in the first place? He didn’t _want_ us, so why did he do nothing if he already knew it would happen? And if he _knew,_ then he also knew he would change his mind when he commanded Mahal to destroy us. Why would he do that? What purpose is there, in forcing Mahal to slay his own children, only to change the order at the very last second?”

Gandalf considered her words for only a moment before he began, “It is not given to us to question Eru’s plans--”

“It’s not given to us to _question_ ,” echoed Hannelís, incredulous. “Of _course_ it is--what else are we supposed to do, if we have no control over anything, if _not_ question? I’ll question him all I like, I think it’s-- _stupid_ and cruel, what he did to Mahal, to _my_ people. How _dare_ he--”

Gandalf puffed up angrily at her words. “How dare _he_ , how dare _you_ \--” But the Wizard stopped himself before he became even more enraged. With great effort, he mastered himself before at last, he was ready to continue: “The divine purposes of Eru are beyond us. Perhaps…in making such a request of Aulë, Eru sought to judge his devotion, his faithfulness to the greatest of the Valar…”

 _Aulë,_ said Gandalf, giving Mahal his Quenya name. It did not sound right on Hannelís’ ears. Nor did his reasoning. “A test of faith?” she said, unbelieving. “To sacrifice his children?” She made no effort to hide her disgust. “No, if it _was_ a test, it was a test to see if Mahal was brave enough to fight back, to _save_ his children from a bloodthirsty Vala. He failed the test, if that is what you would call it.”

The Wizard regarded her, inhaling deep from his pipe. He _hmmed_ out a long cloud of smoke, twisting around him like the silvery afterbreath of dragon-fire. “And you would say that of your Vala?” he asked. “That he failed the Dwarves, his own children?”

“Maybe,” she said evenly. “All I know is we needed him. And he did not protect us.”

He gave another _hmm._ “Your father should have protected you.” She looked at him, and perhaps he could see the defensiveness rising within her, for he said, “You were too young, your Grace. I advised him that such a perilous quest was no place for a child, but he would not hear me. You were his blood, and you belonged at his side, that was what he said. But you did not deserve to endure such horror and loss so very young.”

“I thought you said there was no use speaking of what _should_ have been.”

For the first time, a hint of a smile pulled at the corners of the Wizard’s lips. “Indeed,” he murmured, bringing his pipe to his mouth once more. “Perhaps I am not immune to such vanity. Even I am sometimes plagued by the conviction that I know better, despite the evidence against such folly.”

Hannelís turned away, focusing her gaze again on the river. She watched as the last of the fallen leaves were carried out of sight, leaving only the moon’s reflection in the water below. “Of course I had to go with him. Dís fought for me to stay with her, but he wouldn’t even consider it. Because Erebor was his duty, and mine, as well. It is what I was born for, whether I want it or not.”

“And _do_ you want it, your Grace? After everything?”

 _Everything._ The weight of it was terrible. The plots on her life, the hatred of her kin, the distrust of her people. Even if she _did_ want it with her whole heart, Hannelís did not know if she could keep it. She could return, arrest Dáin and even Thorin, execute them as traitors--and what? She was outnumbered. The Dwarves of the Iron Hills would only despise her more. It felt hopeless.

“I wanted it for a long time,” she finally said, “because it was what _he_ wanted. It was _his_ dream. He never let Ered Luin into his heart, he wouldn’t let it, even when it had long been our home. His heart was always tied to Erebor. And I tried to honor that, after. I did what I could to rebuild Erebor, to…make it _my_ home, too. But I had never wanted it without him.”

She looked at the Wizard, her gaze heavy with the tears that threatened to spill over. “I don’t want to believe in fate. Because fate means I am trapped. It means I’m not in control of my own life, it means I’m doomed to _this,_ to doing my best to honor him even though there’s a part of me--and it’s not always little, either--that…that _hates_ him for leaving me. For abandoning me to _this,_ to Dáin, to life without him. I want to keep his dream alive _and_ I want to snuff it out, and I don’t know how to hold both of those together without it destroying me.”

For a long time, Gandalf said nothing, and Hannelís wondered if she had confessed too much. But at last came the Wizard’s reply: “Perhaps both are possible, your Grace. You _have_ kept his dream alive, more than that, you have _achieved_ it. You have seen Erebor restored and brought prosperity back to the land. For nearly eighty years, you have been Queen under the Mountain, and more than thirty in your own right as a woman grown. You have given much of yourself.” He paused only briefly before asking, “Have you considered abdication?”

Her answer was immediate. “And give the throne to Dáin? _Reward_ his…sedition?”

“You need not think of it that way, your Grace,” he said, firm but with gentleness, too. “What Dáin has done is inexcusable. Yet he is a capable ruler, and a member of your house. The line of Durin would continue to reign in Erebor. Your father’s dream would not die, but _change._ ” The disagreement was plain on her face, and so he changed tack: “Your life is your own, your Grace. You do not owe it to Erebor, if remaining there will be the death of you.”

Hannelís shook her head, as though she could push his words away. “There is no guarantee it will be the death of me,” she said, her face contorting in pain. “I cannot--”

“There are other deaths, your Grace. Some, I fear, you have already faced.”

But try as she might, she could not push his words away. They burrowed into her heart and hooked their claws in deep, until she could not deny the truth that he spoke. It had _already_ almost been the death of her, the _real_ death of her, twice over. Once at her hand, and once at Dáin’s. But there were other deaths to look forward to: the death of freedom, the death of hope, the death of love. It did not feel possible to have those things _and_ Erebor. And if she relinquished them in favor of her crown, her people… _what life is that?_

“I do not want to return,” she said, because it was true. She feared Dáin, and what he would say, what her _people_ would say, if she came to take back her throne after abandoning them. “Yet it seems to me the greatest dishonor to his memory, to give up the very thing he died for.”

“Thorin’s duty never lay with the Lonely Mountain, not truly.” Hannelís met Gandalf’s eyes, her brow pulled together, waiting on what he would say next. “His duty was to Erebor, but Erebor was never a mountain, never a place. It is a _people._ And his _duty_ was to do what was best for _them,_ not perish on a vengeful crusade.”

Part of her wanted to argue, to defend her father to this Wizard who clearly misunderstood him. _And yet._ She could see the wisdom in his words, hateful though they were. Gandalf continued: “What your _duty_ is, your Grace, is to do right by your people. Your house is secure in Dáin. So you must ask yourself: is it _good_ for your people to be ruled by one who resents her crown? Or would it perhaps be better, kinder to both yourself _and_ them, to step aside?”

For a long time, Hannelís said nothing. There was truth in what he said, but she was afraid to give voice to it, to admit it. She felt that once she did, there would be no turning back. Instead, she spoke around the truth, refusing to face it head-on. “It does not matter if I resent my crown. I do not know who I am without it.”

The Wizard loosed one last puff of smoke and sighed. “There is only one way to find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love the dash of Middle-earth theology in this chapter. We're attacking Tolkien's theology of divine providence via the Ainulindalë AND debating the Binding of Isaac while we're at it. Chef's kiss, I love it. (Hope you enjoyed it, too.)
> 
> Hannelís still has some thinking to do. She'll be seeking Elrond's advice soon, plus the Council of Elrond is fast approaching. Looks like Hannelís will get to hear more about that secret mission Bilbo mentioned at dinner…oh, and the council means plenty of familiar faces popping up! (Definitely thought some of them might show up in this chapter but, you know, the conversation got away from me. In a good way. I liked how it turned out!)
> 
> What do y'all think? I always love to hear your feedback! :)


	31. The Council of Elrond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin. We know what this is.

It seemed Rivendell was quite the place to be. When the Dwarves first arrived, all but one of the other guest-houses were empty--the other, of course, was home to the Hobbits. Bilbo and Gandalf had their own chambers in the Last Homely House, where Lord Elrond and his children and many of the other Elves also slept.

There was another person lurking about, a brave ranger the Hobbits called Strider, but Hannelís had yet to meet him. Apparently he, too, dwelled somewhere in the Last Homely House, which she found odd because it seemed only those who knew Lord Elrond rather well had rooms there…but she had more important things to think about, so she did not ponder the curiosity long.

Another Man arrived in Rivendell the day after the Dwarves arrived, escorted by some Elf-scouts who had found him lost near the Ford of Bruinen. He was given his own guest-house, only a short ways from where the Dwarves were staying, and it was there that Hannelís first crossed his path. She stepped out into the sun and breathed in the crisp autumn air--and then out of nowhere, there he was.

“You are no Elf.”

There was something very familiar about him, though exactly what that thing _was,_ she did not know. He was tall and dark, with soft waves falling to his shoulders and piercing silver eyes. He had a hard and noble air to him, a seriousness that sat heavy on his shoulders. Yet when he spoke to her now, his voice was kind and inquisitive.

Hannelís looked down at the sage-colored gown Lord Elrond’s daughter Arwen had personally delivered to her today, along with the news that her father was calling a special meeting at noontime. The Dwarf-queen may be _dressed_ like an Elf--in an awkward, ill-fitting way--but still, she did not look the part. She was far too short, her hair far too frizzy, her face not half as fair, to ever be mistaken for an Elf.

“I am definitely not,” she said wryly. She gathered up her too-long skirts and stepped toward him. “And neither are you. What is your name?”

The Man smiled, and he gave a small bow. “I am Boromir, Captain of Gondor. Who are you?”

Hannelís could not hide her shock. _It cannot be._ Perhaps Boromir was a common Gondorian name. And after all, he was a captain of _Gondor,_ not _Minas Tirith._ He may well not be Finduilas’ son. Yet the longer she stared at him, the more she saw his resemblance to Denethor. And he was the right age, somewhere nearing forty, or maybe just past. With effort, she found her words: “You are Boromir, son of Steward Denethor?”

Boromir’s grin turned slightly. “I am,” he said, baffled. He seemed to hear the recognition in her voice. “Do you know my father? I have not seen you in the White City.”

“No,” she lied fluidly, her gut twisting in guilt as she said it. Too well, she remembered Denethor’s words in that final letter. _My family has suffered enough._ She did not have the heart to tell Boromir how she knew his parents. “I have heard your name, and his,” she continued, hoping the lie was convincing, “from southern traders. I am Hannelís of Erebor.”

“Erebor,” he murmured, his brow coming together as he tried to place the name. It took him a moment, but when he did, his eyes went wide. He bowed once more, much lower this time. “It is an honor, your Grace.”

“That’s not necessary,” she said as he rose to his full height. Since her conversation with Gandalf, Hannelís had felt distinctly uncomfortable with such shows of deference. When Glóin had called her _azbad_ that morning over breakfast, she almost hadn’t been able to hide her wince. She felt like a fraud, being treated like a queen while she had yet to decide whether she wanted to continue _being_ one.

She could see his confusion, but she did not want to explain herself. So when he opened his mouth to speak, she quickly asked, “What brings you to Rivendell?”

For the first time, Boromir hesitated. “An errand,” he said at last, “on behalf of Gondor.”

He had not asked the same question, but she gave her answer, anyway: “We are also here on an errand.”

Again, Boromir smiled. “We are here on common purpose, then.” _Well,_ she thought, _not necessarily, unless he has also come with news of Mordor._ Since he was from Gondor, though, she wouldn’t find that hard to believe. Then he backtracked: “We, you say?”

She gestured back toward the guest-house. “I have come with our ambassador Glóin, and his son.”

He glanced at the small home behind her and nodded. “I look forward to meeting them, then.” He looked all around them, at the Last Homely House in the distance and the red-gold autumn mountains that surrounded the valley. “It is smaller than I imagined, Imladris. I imagine it will not be long before we cross paths.”

Yes, Boromir was likely used to large cities and impressive townships. Taking in the valley herself, Hannelís wondered if it was bigger than Minas Tirith--she thought it was, perhaps, in fact smaller. Rivendell was not a _city_ by any stretch, but she could see how he’d assumed it would be, being home to such an important Elf-lord.

“Perhaps this afternoon,” she said, guessing that Boromir, too, would be present at Lord Elrond’s meeting.

Indeed, Boromir _was_ present at the Elf-lord’s council. His was the first face Hannelís saw as the Dwarves entered the circular courtyard set aside for the occasion. Lord Elrond was there, of course, with Gandalf seated at his side. There were other Elves, too, from his household, Lindir among them. And Legolas--he was there, as a representative from Mirkwood, maybe. _Why?_ They exchanged a polite nod when he met her gaze.

Then there were the Hobbits. Bilbo sat beside Gandalf, with Frodo and Sam on his left. And on Sam’s other side were three empty chairs, plainly meant for the Dwarves. As Hannelís descended the last of the stairs, she noticed the last person present, another Man seated by Boromir.

It was Thorongil.

Her reaction was much like the moment when one thinks there is one more step where there is none. Without warning, one’s foot falls much farther than anticipated, and one’s heart plummets horribly. But she had not missed a step. Her heart had indeed plunged into her belly, but it was because of Thorongil, not the stairs. She was already back on level ground, yet she felt like she was still falling.

Thorongil looked as taken aback as Hannelís felt.

He looked older, yet… _not quite._ He did not look as old as he _should,_ given how much time had passed. Fifty years, or just about. If Hannelís hadn’t known better, she might have thought he was of an age with Boromir, but she _did_ know better, and he must be nearly as old as she was. Of course, she had aged even less than he; to him, she must look only ten years older at most. But she was half-Dwarf, and he was only a Man.

A brief glance at Gandalf told Hannelís he was _not_ pleased she had already noticed Thorongil and _no,_ now was _not_ the time for a reunion. And so she took her seat beside Gimli and Glóin. Lord Elrond wasted no time in convening the meeting.

All present, according to the Elf-lord, had converged upon Rivendell at the same time, each for their own unique purpose. Yet as fate would have it, these purposes were aligned. At Elrond’s bidding, the stories were all shared in turn. Glóin began with the messenger from Mordor, and the information he sought concerning Bilbo and his magic ring. Then Boromir told of a vision both he and his brother saw in a dream, of Imladris and Isildur’s Bane. And at the Elf-lord’s direction, Frodo produced that very thing--Isildur’s Bane and Bilbo’s ring, which were one and the same. The young Baggins placed it upon a stone plinth at the center of the circle.

Then Bilbo shared his tale of finding his ring in the Misty Mountains. Gandalf picked up the story from there, telling of how Gollum first came to possess the magic ring, and how the Wizard himself confirmed that this ring was not just any magical object but the One Ring, forged by Sauron in the Second Age. If Sauron were to ever regain the Ring, said Gandalf, he would subjugate all of Middle-earth and cast the world into darkness.

Thorongil then told of his hunt for Gollum, which at least answered Hannelís’ question of _what_ exactly he was doing here. In the end, his hunt was a success; Thorongil found Gollum and delivered him to the Elves of Mirkwood for safekeeping. At this point, Legolas sprung to his feet and confessed _his_ reason for being in Rivendell: Thranduil’s guards had _lost_ Gollum, after taking him on a walk in the forest. “We were trying to do him a kindness,” said Legolas, his face twisted in agony while Gandalf glared at him murderously.

Still, there was worse news. The Wizard shared of a dark treachery: Isengard, a place Hannelís knew only because of its proximity to Rohan, had betrayed the good and joined with Sauron. Gandalf had even been imprisoned there for a time, which was a great surprise to Hannelís, who had a hard time imagining _anyone_ powerful enough to hold the Wizard captive. (The answer, she learned, was: an even _more_ powerful Wizard.) But at last, Gandalf found his escape,and made his way here…and that, it seemed, was the last of the tales.

What remained was the matter of the Ring. Lord Elrond declared that it must be destroyed--but _how,_ was the real question. The Elf-lord spoke of the Ring’s destruction as though it was the only real option, which Hannelís supposed made sense…but clearly, not everyone present was in agreement on that point.

“It is a gift,” said Boromir, shaking his head. “A gift to the foes of Mordor. Why not _use_ this ring?” He was pacing the courtyard now, beseeching each of them in turn. When his eyes met hers, Hannelís saw the desperation there, as well as the duty that weighed heavy on him. “Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of _our people_ are your lands kept safe. Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy--let us use it _against_ him--”

“You cannot wield it,” Thorongil said, cutting off Boromir at the height of his passion. “None of us can. The One Ring answers to Sauron alone; it has no other master.”

It was bold, this public challenge to one as noble as a steward’s son. Boromir’s gray eyes flashed dangerously, and he stepped toward Thorongil, spitting out his retort: “And what does a _ranger_ know of this matter?”

“This is no mere ranger.” Legolas was on his feet now, his gaze piercing the young Man of Gondor with an unrelenting heat. “He is Aragorn son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance.”

 _Aragorn._ The name was both familiar and not. Hannelís was sure she had heard it somewhere, in one of the dull annals Gandalf made her read all those years ago in Minas Tirith. They were Gondorian names, both of them, Aragorn and Arathorn. They were royal names. But they did not belong to Thorongil.

 _And yet._ Legolas spoke with such surety.

Boromir shared her confusion, but there was something else brewing beneath the surface. A glimmer of disdain and disbelief, perhaps. “Aragorn,” he sneered, regarding Thorongil much as one would a rat. “ _This_ is Isildur’s heir?”

 _Isildur,_ Hannelís knew. He was the last High King of Arnor and Gondor, before the realms were sundered at the beginning of the Third Age. All around, the others stirred with surprise at the news that a Man of such a noble bloodline was in their midst. But unlike them, Hannelís was frozen in place. _Oh, fuck. Oh, no._

Blood pounded in her ears, and her heart thudded so loudly she feared someone would hear it. _Actually…_ she bit back a groan as she realized the Elves almost certainly _did_ hear it. _Fuck Elves._

For the briefest of moments, Thorongil met her gaze before shying away and locking eyes with Legolas. _Fuck Thorongil._ No, not Thorongil. _Aragorn._ His acknowledgment broke her out of her shock. Now, what she felt was not horrible, numb surprise. It was anger. Anger, tinged with hurt and betrayal, which made it sting all the more.

Through the rushing in her ears, she heard Thorongil-- _Aragorn,_ damn him--tell Legolas to sit down. Which he did. The Elf-prince deferred to the ranger, because the ranger was not really a ranger. He was a king. Well, no, he was _heir_ to the greatest kingship in Middle-earth. But Hannelís felt like that was splitting hairs. _He’s a fucking king._

He was a king, and he had never told her. He had played the part of a ranger brilliantly, flawlessly. She had never doubted him. Even though he had always had a noble air to him--but she thought that was just _him,_ just Thorongil…but it was more than that. It was his birthright. _And he never told me._

It wounded her more than she cared to admit. She had been open with him--indeed, she could think of nothing, really, that she had purposely withheld from him. Not even her heart. _Yet the whole time…_ he had lied to her. Not directly, but in _not_ telling. He had never been the person she thought he was.

Boromir, at least, shared her anger. His initial doubt had burned away quickly, leaving contempt in its wake. “Gondor has no king,” he hissed, barely able to bring himself to look at Legolas. He stalked back to his seat. “Gondor _needs_ no king.”

Gandalf had little patience for Boromir’s insolence or the general air of bewilderment that had taken the council. “Aragorn is right; we cannot use it.”

Hearing Gandalf use Thorongil’s true name only added fuel to Hannelís’ rage. _He knew._ Of course he did. The Wizard knew, and had knowingly concealed the truth from her, as well. She dug her nails into the wooden arms of her chair in her effort to keep her face even.

“…the Ring must be destroyed,” came Elrond’s voice floating over the roaring in her ears.

“Then what are we waiting for?” cried Gimli, taking his ax in hand and flinging himself toward the stone plinth.

He brought his battle-ax down upon the Ring with enough force to cleave an Orc’s skull clean in two. In a flash, the Dwarf was flat on his back, his ax shattered into a dozen pieces. At once, Glóin was at his side, hoisting his son back to his feet. And all the while, the Ring remained unharmed.

The Elf-lord’s reply was swift: “The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli son of Glóin, by any craft that we here possess. The Ring was forged in the fires of Mount Doom, and only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm whence it came.” His eyes passed to each of them in turn before uttering his final words: “One of you must do this.”

 _Why can’t you?_ was Hannelís’ first thought. The Dwarves were here to seek counsel from Lord Elrond, not be given an impossible and perilous task. It seemed more than a little presumptuous of him to just…dump this responsibility upon them, just because they had the misfortune of being in Rivendell at the same time as the Ring.

Everyone else seemed to think the Elf-lord’s statement equally ridiculous. Boromir shook his head with a rueful smile as he leaned forward in his seat and began to speak: “One does not simply walk into Mordor. Its gates are guarded by more than just Orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep. It is a… _barren_ wasteland, riddled with fire and ash and dust. Not with an army of ten thousand could you do this. It is _folly._ ”

“Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said?” said Legolas, his voice as harsh as the glint in his eyes. “The Ring _must_ be destroyed.”

 _That is easier said than done,_ thought Hannelís, weighing Boromir’s words in her mind. It was one thing to _know_ the Ring needed destroying; it was altogether another to attempt an assault on Mordor in the hopes of accomplishing that.

Gimli scoffed at the Elf-prince, his gaze suspicious. “And I suppose you think _you’re_ the one to do it, eh?”

Boromir, too, threw his derision at Legolas: “And if we fail, what then? What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?”

Gimli was on his feet. “I will be dead before I see the Ring in the hands of an Elf!”

Then Glóin was standing, too, his lips at his son’s ear. Urging him to practice caution, Hannelís imagined. But Legolas was stalking toward the young Dwarf now, his pointed ears going red. In fact, every Elf save Lord Elrond was now fixing Gimli with the same ruinous look.

Glóin could not assuage his son’s rage. “Never trust an Elf!” crowed Gimli, daring the Elves to respond.

The Elves advanced toward the Dwarves then, and Hannelís stood quickly, planting herself beside her kin. Glóin may be right that Gimli’s words were not wise--but Gimli had spoken them, and now it seemed the council could come to blows. Mahal be damned if Hannelís did not stand by her people.

Hannelís could barely keep track of all the insults being exchanged. The Elves looked on the Dwarves with malice--and for their part, the Dwarves answered with matching venom. And Boromir--he seemed to regard the Elves and Dwarves alike with distrust and scorn. Even Gandalf had joined the fray.

“The Dwarves will cower in their halls of stone as they have always done,” one Elf was saying. “They care only for their own survival!”

Both Gimli and Glóin reacted vocally to that, but it was Hannelís’ voice that rang out above theirs: “You _lie._ The Elves would hide away in their trees until all the world is destroyed. They would rather us watch us die than risk their precious lives.”

“Do you not understand,” said the Wizard, forcing himself between the Elves and Dwarves as one Elf drew a dagger and Glóin reached for his ax in answer, “while we quarrel among ourselves, Sauron’s power grows? None can escape it--you’ll all be destroyed!”

The Elves rounded on the Dwarf-queen despite Gandalf’s words. Legolas alone stilled. She caught his gaze without meaning to, as Glóin forced her back in an effort to shield her from harm. A pang of guilt hit her when she saw the hurt in the Elf-prince’s eyes.

She was right _and_ wrong. The Elves had failed the Dwarves of Erebor when Smaug came. They had abandoned her people to a monstrous death by dragon-fire rather than make any move to save them. But that was then. Now was different. She had labored to foster better relations with Thranduil and Mirkwood. Legolas had even helped her do that. Her words were unfair, and they both knew it. But she could not unsay them now.

Above the clamor and the fury, a small voice spoke against the uproar. But it was not until the voice spoke again that anyone really heard what it had said: _I will take it. I will take it._ Slowly, the courtyard quieted, and all eyes turned to the Hobbit now planted beside the stone plinth. It was Frodo.

He was so small, and so brave, and so gentle, it broke Hannelís’ heart. And suddenly, she felt a terrible shame, that she and her people and all the rest gathered here--these titled, self-important leaders of Middle-earth--would bicker like children…while this little, courageous Hobbit remained focused on the one thing that truly mattered. Such a colossal burden, and he accepted it with such _earnest_ resolve.

“I will take the Ring to Mordor,” said Frodo, his voice firm even as his wide eyes betrayed his unease. “Although…” He looked to Gandalf with no small measure of trepidation. “I do not know the way.”

The rush of _love_ she felt for the young Baggins then. Hannelís found Bilbo’s gaze, and there were tears in his eyes. And the way Sam stared at Frodo, his face shining in wonder…the little Hobbit was very loved, indeed, that much was clear. Her heart was gripped by the desire to protect him, to _help_ him.

“So be it,” said Lord Elrond, regarding Frodo with a keen and grave respect. “This task is appointed to you, Frodo Baggins. But it is a heavy burden, so heavy that none could force it upon another. I would not lay it on you--but should you take it freely, I deem your choice right.”

The Hobbit’s nod was both solemn and timid, but at once Sam objected, “But you won’t send him off again, will you, my lord?”

“Indeed, I will not,” answered Elrond with a kind smile. “You at least will go with him. No, it is hardly possible to separate you, even when _he_ is summoned to a secret council and _you_ are not.”

Sam’s cheeks went scarlet, and he clung to Frodo’s arm, leaning close and muttering, “What a pickle we have landed ourselves in, Mr. Frodo!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was very much a combination of the book and movie, because I love both and I could not choose! Sam is adorable and Frodo is so heartbreaking and I just UGH I love them so much. If you haven’t read the books, then never fear: Elrond selects the members of the Fellowship at a later date, so I didn’t forget--that’s still coming. They’ll be in Rivendell for at least another chapter, because they’re still there for ~2 months post-council while Frodo finishes healing, they brainstorm quest strategies, etc.
> 
> ANYWAY, Hannelís is pissed at Aragorn for lying to her and they’re going to have it out soon. Also, Arwen’s around and that’s going to be very awkward at some point. So that will be fun!
> 
> This chapter took me forever to write because I kept putting it off because like, we KNOW what happens here, we KNOW but I still felt like I needed to include it, and I tried to make it interesting and funny and dramatic, etc. But like…we KNOW.
> 
> Hope you liked!


	32. Thorongil, But Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn and Hannelís have it out in Elrond's study. Hannelís is pissed.

When all was said and done, and Frodo officially accepted the mantle of Ring-bearer, the council scattered in a dozen different directions. Hannelís was the first out of the courtyard, her legs carrying her as quickly as she could manage in her too-long skirts. Once she had recovered from the awe she felt at Frodo’s courage, her anger at Thorongil returned in full.

 _Not Thorongil,_ she corrected herself with more than a little bitterness. _Aragorn._

Glóin and Gimli followed swiftly. “I cannot believe that spoiled princeling,” growled Glóin, not bothering to lower his voice. He plainly did not care if Legolas heard him. “Losing that wretched creature, how could they be so irresponsible? I should not be surprised, the Wood-elves have only ever cared about themselves…”

No, Glóin had never forgiven the time he spent imprisoned in Thranduil’s halls, along with all of Thorin’s Company. There was a reason Hannelís was always the one who managed relations with the Elves of Mirkwood, and not Glóin, Erebor’s ambassador. He could not get past his grudge, and Hannelís could not find it within herself to blame him. They _had_ been jailed unjustly--and for all they knew, Thorin’s Company might _still_ be in Mirkwood to this day, had Bilbo not smuggled them out in empty wine-barrels.

Hannelís winced at Glóin’s words, feeling guilty once more for what she had said at the council. If she was being fair, both Mirkwood _and_ Erebor cared first and foremost about themselves--because _every_ kingdom was loyal to itself above all else. Yet the Elves and Dwarves had endeavored to work together, to form an alliance if not a friendship, just as the Dwarves had built good relations with the Men of Dale and Lake-town.

“Rotten waif of a thing,” agreed Gimli while his father continued grumbling to himself. “Standing there in his fancy velvet and silk, I doubt there’s _any_ muscle under there, soft and weak and pretty…”

He trailed off as Hannelís shot him a queer look. She was about to ask him why he was thinking about whether Legolas had muscles or not, and why exactly Gimli thought him _pretty,_ when a voice called out from behind them: “Your Grace.”

She did not have to look back to know it was Thorongil. _Aragorn. Fuck._ Even after all this time, he sounded the same as the day they met in Edoras. Age changed the timbre of some voices, but not his. Gimli and Glóin turned to see who it was, but Hannelís did not slow. In fact, she walked faster.

“Your Grace,” said Aragorn again. He sounded closer now. _Fuck._ Damn his legs for being so much longer than hers.

The third time, she could practically _feel_ him behind her when he said, “Hannelís.”

Hannelís turned, feigning surprise and not bothering to feign it well. “Oh, Lord Aragorn,” she said flatly. “Forgive me, I did not hear you. How may I be of service?”

She saw the hurt flicker across his face before he managed to hide it. That almost made her feel guilty for being so cold. _Almost._ She thought he deserved the coldness, and worse. “I understand if you feel you were lied to,” he began, while Gimli and Glóin looked on in horrible confusion.

She did not allow him to continue: “I do not _feel_ I was lied to; I _was_ lied to, my lord.”

Aragorn sighed. “You need not call me that, Hannelís. You _know_ me.”

“Evidently not,” she said. “And I insist you call me your Grace, my lord.”

It was proof of Aragorn’s great patience and kindness that he did not roll his eyes. Hannelís didn’t particularly want _anyone_ calling her _your Grace_ at the moment, what with the prospect of abdication hanging over her head. But just now, in this moment, her desire to be spiteful won out over everything else.

“ _Azbad,_ ” murmured Gimli, his voice a low threat at her side. His hand drifted toward his ax as he glowered at this strange, noble Man who had apparently committed some grave ill against his queen. “Do you require our assistance?”

Glóin looked like he was about to chastise his son for his rashness-- _he is the heir to the throne of Gondor!_ she imagined him hissing into his ear--but Hannelís answered before he could get a word in: “Oh, right--Gimli, you remember that ranger I spoke of, all those years ago, who you encouraged me to write to until one day, he suddenly decided to stop writing back?”

Poor Gimli was not as sharp as Hannelís was hoping. His brow pulled together, and he frowned up at her. “Why, I _do, azbad,_ but…but what does that have to do with _him_?” he asked, nodding toward Aragorn, who now seemed like he was trying _very_ hard indeed to not roll his eyes. Hannelís thought she might actually run out of his patience. And she wouldn’t mind if she did. _Fuck civility; I’m pissed._

“You are right,” said Aragorn, his voice a touch harder, “I lied. I am sorry, your Grace. It was not my intent for you to feel betrayed. My true name was long kept a secret. It remains secret still, in many places.”

The sharp inhale at her right told her Gimli had figured it out. Aragorn’s eyes flickered down to him before journeying to Glóin and settling back on Hannelís. “Your Grace, may we speak privately?”

She was tempted to say _no,_ they would have it out right here, in front of Gimli and Glóin who would surely share her outrage, and she could leave this encounter feeling justified in her anger. But Aragorn seemed sincere in his apology, even if he _also_ seemed sincere in his _annoyance…_ so Hannelís gathered her dignity and nodded. With a polite departing glance at the other Dwarves, Aragorn motioned for her to join him in the nearest room.

It was Lord Elrond’s study. The walls were lined with ancient books and tomes, and some scrolls were still half-unrolled on a desk. Other surfaces were littered with various devices, spyglasses and other brass instruments, and dozens of partially melted candles housed in plain yet elegant holders. A chaise sat near the empty fireplace, a lush fur draped over it. The study was beautiful, yet sensible, and not overly ornate. It was much like Elrond in that way. It suited him.

Hannelís had peered in the windows once, when she was a child here with Thorin’s Company--but she had never been inside. It was the Elf-lord’s; that meant it was not for just _anyone._ And although she was a queen, she could not help but feel like a naughty child trespassing where she shouldn’t. “Are you sure it is all right for us to be here, my lord?”

“Hannelís.” Aragorn’s voice sounded tired. “Please do not call me that.”

She almost corrected him. _Your Grace_ was on her tongue, but she bit it back and sank into the nearest seat. There was something about being alone with him that cooled her anger, at least in some small measure. When they were alone, away from councils and Wizards and fancy Elves spouting noble titles, it was easy to feel like they were just…them. Hannelís and _not-_ Thorongil. It took the pressure off. Suddenly, she was grateful to him for suggesting they speak privately. But none of that meant her anger was gone _entirely._

“First of all,” she said at last, when it was clear Aragorn was waiting on her to speak, “I don’t feel betrayed; I _am_ betrayed. There’s a difference. I _feel_ …embarrassed. Because I didn’t have all the information. You denied me that. And what we did, it wasn’t… _right,_ not when you are… _who_ you are. Who _we_ are.”

The ranger-turned-king’s brow pulled together in confusion. “Not right? What do you mean?”

“Because--” She sighed, hearing the irritation creep into her voice. “Because _royals_ are meant to form political alliances through marriages, and--and trade deals, and military support. We don’t just _bed_ each other dishonorably.”

Now he looked concerned. “Do you feel that I dishonored you?”

Hannelís winced. “No,” she began, thinking that wasn’t _quite_ what she’d intended to say. She was struggling to articulate precisely _what_ she was feeling.

“That was not my intent.” From the look on Aragorn’s face, she knew he meant it. _Fuck, I’d forgotten how earnest he can be._

“I know it wasn’t,” she said, with as much gentleness as she could muster. A not-small part of her wondered if she was making a bigger deal of this than it was. And she knew it was not wise to offend him, since he _was_ a king, or as good _as_ a king. A future king, perhaps. _No, almost certainly,_ she thought. He was publicly named the rightful heir before the steward’s son. If he had no intention of ever claiming his throne, then he could have denied Legolas’ pronouncement and remained Thorongil forever.

While she was thinking through all of this, Aragorn said, “I did not expect such prudishness from the Dwarves.”

His tone told her it was half a jest, but her face flushed with renewed anger, anyway. “I’m _not--_ I only meant--this isn’t how it’s _done_ ,” she insisted, her voice hot. “Royals treat each other with respect; that’s how diplomacy _works._ It’s one thing for me to bed a ranger--”

“Diplomacy did not stop you from kissing Finduilas.”

As soon as Aragorn said it, he knew he had gone too far. But the regret that flashed across his face did nothing to soothe the fury-tinged hurt that flowed through her now. She scoffed, unbelieving. He had not even said it with any particular venom. It had _almost_ been teasing, more pointing out a flaw in her argument than anything else. But it stung, and he knew it. “Hannelís, forgive me--”

“Fuck you,” she said--because being angry was better than being sad. It was _easier._ It hurt less. She would rather yell at Aragorn than weep in front of him.

The silence that passed was tense and uncomfortable. Fleetingly, it occurred to Hannelís that there were probably Elves nearby who could hear every word they said. For the sake of her dignity, she hoped Lord Elrond wasn’t one of them. At last, Aragorn sighed and fell into the chair opposite her. He looked _tired,_ and guilty, and like he would rather be anywhere but here, having this conversation.

Hannelís picked at the edge of a scroll on the table, her fingernail tracing the line of an old tear. She focused on the Elvish script there, wondering if the tengwar was Quenya, or perhaps Telerin. If it was Sindarin, she would have recognized it. She did not want to look at him when she spoke next. “He found out in the end. Denethor.”

She felt Aragorn’s eyes on him, but still she did not look away from the Elvish letters. “He sent me a letter, telling me she died. He asked me to never write again. Because they had suffered enough. And I would just make them suffer further.”

“He loved her,” he said simply, because it was true. Denethor was never what Finduilas needed, _who_ she needed to be happy. She needed warmth and kind words and the salt-bitten air of the coast…but Denethor was none of those things. He could not _give_ her those things. Yet he had loved her nonetheless. “I was grieved to learn of her passing.”

“Right,” murmured Hannelís, trying to hide the bitterness worming its way into her voice, “I am sure you did. Would have been nice to hear from you then. We could have shared our grief together.”

Aragorn’s only response to that was a sigh. Not an apology, nor an excuse. Just a sigh. Irritation pricked at her, and she allowed herself to indulge in _just a little_ pettiness. Or maybe more than a little. “No, I think you were having a wonderful time with the Elves around then, weren’t you? Did you swing by Mirkwood, as well? Because of _course,_ if you visited Thranduil’s halls, _I_ wouldn’t know, because you didn’t swing by Erebor despite my multiple explicit invitations. Is that when you told Legolas your true name? I _get_ Gandalf knowing, but honestly, you telling _Legolas_ over me? _That_ stings.”

 _I fucking hate Elves._ The thought was uncharitable, and untruthful. She did not _honestly_ hate _all_ Elves, but she also did _not_ understand why Aragorn seemed to love them so much. _If he loves Elves so much, then he should fucking marry one._ Then it occurred to her that Aragorn _had_ wanted to wed an Elf all those years ago--only she did not love him back. And that made Hannelís feel a bit better, at least.

Aragorn pushed himself out of his seat. “I have made my apology,” he said, with what was a truly impressive amount of patience. “Now it is up to you to decide whether you will accept it. But if all that interests you is…berating me for things I cannot change, then I am afraid I must disappoint you. I do not intend to hear it.”

“Fine,” said Hannelís, standing quickly before he could leave. But she tread on her too-long hem and had to catch herself before she tripped forward. She gathered up her skirts in her hands and tried to look dignified. “You’re right; that was unfair. I apologize.”

But now Aragorn was looking at her gown, a strange expression on his face. “Is that…who gave you that?”

Hannelís glanced down at the green gown before shrugging her shoulders. “Lord Elrond’s daughter, why?” After a moment, she rolled her eyes and added, “It’s too long, I know. I did not travel with council-appropriate apparel.”

“I thought it was Arwen’s,” he said, half to himself. For the first time, his lips turned up in a smile.

 _Of course he knows Arwen._ “I suppose _she_ knows your name, too,” she said before she could help herself.

Instead of irritation, Aragorn grinned in full, his face a portrait of fondness. “She does. She knows every name I have ever carried, back to my childhood here in Rivendell.” _Ah,_ he was raised in Rivendell. _That’s why he likes Elves._ At least the Elf-love made sense to Hannelís now. “I do not doubt she knew my true name long before I learned it myself.”

There was more than fondness in his eyes. _He loves her._ The truth of it pulled at her heart and made it ache, her long-forgotten affection suddenly marred by jealousy. She had spent all this time being furious with Aragorn…she did not think it would hurt to learn he belonged to another. _But his heart has always been hers._ “Arwen is your Lúthien, isn’t she?”

It should not have been possible for Aragorn’s smile to grow more, but it did. “And I am her Beren,” he said, his voice resonant in joy and adoration. His smile softened then, and he looked on her with such kindness. “That is why I stopped writing, when I returned to Lórien. It felt wrong to continue our… _friendship_ after Arwen and I pledged ourselves to one another. But it was also wrong to end our letters without saying good-bye. I am sorry for that.”

For some reason, that apology meant more to her than the other. It had hurt to know he had lied to her for so long about something so important…but that hurt was nothing compared to the sting of abandonment. She had cherished his companionship while it lasted. And she had lost so many people she loved, over and over again. She had not looked to lose him, too. Until the day, long after her last letter had flown away on dark wings, that she was finally forced to accept that an answer would never come. That he had stepped beyond her reach.

“Thank you.” She meant it. What she _didn’t_ mean--what she only meant a little, and not with her whole heart--was what she said next. “Congratulations. I wish you both all the happiness together.”

There was nothing more to say. Not now, at least. They both seemed to understand that. Aragorn dipped his head in gratitude and in parting, and for the last time Hannelís mustered up what was left of her dignity and stepped out into the open air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannelís really thought IF YOU LOVE ELVES SO MUCH WHY DON'T YOU MARRY ONE and Aragorn immediately responded, "Actually, I am and we're incredibly in love." BUT we love drama in this house, so I'm doing a combination of the books and movies where, in the books, Aragorn and Arwen have been betrothed for decades and Aragorn leaves Rivendell with Anduril fully intending to become king ASAP so he can marry Arwen--aaaand in the movies, Arwen considers sailing and they briefly break up. We're gonna do the brief break-up, because why not, it'll give us more opportunities for drama. Movie-Aragorn has a better character arc, and that's just facts.
> 
> Also, I will TRY to get out of Rivendell in under two chapters, there's just STUFF that needs to happen first.
> 
> Anyway, please let me know what you think! Hope you enjoyed!


	33. Kaddish Yatom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannelís and Bilbo say kaddish for Thorin. Lord Elrond offers his counsel.

There was nothing keeping Hannelís in Rivendell, yet she stayed, anyway. The Council of Elrond had given the Dwarves the information they sought regarding the threat of Mordor. It was indeed necessary to ready the Lonely Mountain for war. Back in Erebor, the Dwarves were already collaborating with the Men of Dale and Lake-town in these efforts. Legolas sent word to Mirkwood, so that they, too, could prepare.

Word arrived from Thranduil. In the Elf-prince’s absence, a scouting Orc-party had come up from Dol Guldur to assess the weaknesses of the Woodland Realm. With pride, the Elf-king reported the Orcs had been routed by a mere fraction of Mirkwood’s forces, led fiercely by Tauriel. Still, he wrote, Dol Guldur would return in strength. He asked his son to come home. It was not an order, but a plea. In such treacherous times, their sundering was too great for him to bear.

It grieved Legolas to say no, but Lord Elrond had already spoken to him about accompanying Frodo and Sam on their quest to Mt. Doom. The Elf-lord was arranging a company to journey with them, a small band representing the Free Peoples of Middle-earth. Aragorn, too, would join them on his way to Gondor, and Boromir with him. They would go as far as the White City, where their true duties lay. Lord Elrond had yet to speak to the Dwarves about _their_ representation.

Glóin wanted to return to Erebor. That desire only increased with the news of Dol Guldur. He sensed his queen’s reluctance to leave Rivendell. Hannelís worried he had begun to suspect something. She did not intend to leave before she had decided whether or not to abdicate. She could not face Dáin before then--him, or any of her people. But time was running out. War was coming.

One morning, Hannelís awoke…and finally, it was 77 years since her father died. The stars whirled overhead as she slept, the final hours of the year rolling by until it was _that_ day again. It was not as cold as it should have been in late November, but Rivendell was farther south than Erebor. The Lonely Mountain would be blanketed in snow by now, the Long Lake frozen save for narrow passes of broken ice where bargemen ferried trade from Dale.

That first year, Hannelís spoke the words each day. As a child, she would watch her father recite the prayer, on those dark anniversaries of loss that were, for him, too many. They were too many for anyone. Death had touched her father’s life all too often, until at last it came to touch hers, too, when it took him away forever. Sometimes, she remembered, the grief was still an open wound, and the tears fell freely down Thorin’s cheeks at those moments, wetting his lips as they formed the words he had said a thousand times before.

Then, Hannelís didn’t understand why he wept. The words were a _good_ thing--they proclaimed Mahal’s greatness, they glorified and exalted him, they called down peace upon the world. The words did not fit the sharp, raw ache that rent her heart in two at Ravenhill. It was only then, after she had come to know such loss, that she learned even the sweetest words, even the act of blessing Mahal’s name, could taste bitter on her tongue.

As autumn turned to winter and that first year ended, Hannelís could finally lock those words away. Yet from now until her death, she would return to them, pry them out of the hole where her heart had once been whole and let her lips do the rest--but only on that day. For 76 years in the waning days of November, Hannelís had done this. For Thorin, for Fíli, for Kíli. She remembered for them, even if she did not want to remember for herself. They deserved to not be forgotten.

Yes, it was once more time to say the words, but Hannelís could not simply _say_ them. That is, she could not say them _alone_. Traditionally, ten Dwarves were required, but as there were only three Dwarves in Rivendell--and Hannelís only a half-Dwarf at that--she would need to get creative.

Gimli and Glóin were easy recruits. They understood the importance of the prayer. Bilbo, too, was eager to join; no sooner had he heard Thorin’s name than he agreed, a wistful pang of grief taking hold of him. With him came the four young Hobbits, including the two who would soon be tested on their own journey, just like Bilbo’s long ago. Then Gandalf. The last volunteer came as a surprise.

“Forgive me for overhearing,” said Lord Elrond, stepping out of an arched passageway. “I remember your father well, your Grace, and I admired the passion he had for his people. It would be an honor to join you, if you will have me.”

Beneath his noble bearing, Hannelís thought she saw the slightest hint of discomfort--awkwardness, perhaps. As though the old Elf-lord felt out of place offering his service in an ancient Dwarven ritual. There was restraint, too, in the Elf’s words; while he may have admired Thorin’s passion, Hannelís knew he also thought it misguided, an unwise zeal that led her father to an early grave.

He was kind not to say so now, even if they both knew the full truth. “The honor is mine, my lord.”

And so, they joined together in the courtyard, Elf and Dwarves and Hobbits and Wizard. As they formed a circle, Glóin began to hum a wordless melody, a low song in a minor key that vibrated in Hannelís’ chest. She and Gimli picked up the tune, and after a time even Bilbo recognized it enough to add his voice. Hannelís was not aware of how long the song lasted; it wormed its way into her bones and held her there, anchored in the moment.

When the melody at last gave way to silence, Hannelís remained there, eyes closed, feeling the words rise in her as the music faded. She opened her mouth, ready to begin, but one voice stayed her: “Hannelís?”

It was Bilbo. Hannelís did not have to look to know. She had known his voice since she was a child, yes, but it was the form of address, too. She was not _your Grace_ or _azbad_ to Bilbo. He had never known her as his queen, or any queen at all. She loved that. To Bilbo, she would always be simply Hannelís.

She opened her eyes and looked down. Something pricked at her heart when she saw the tears rolling down his cheeks. The Hobbit was old now, white and wrinkled and smaller, somehow, stooped over from the weight of the long years. Yet when Hannelís saw him weep now, she saw the same Bilbo who shed bitter tears over her father’s body, who wailed until he was hoarse, whose only words as the Dwarves peeled him off of Thorin were _I love him, I loved--I loved him._ Even now, she heard the words in his grieved silence. Bilbo loved Thorin still.

He did not wipe away the tears. “Can I--may I say it for him, too?”

The breath hitched in her throat, and it took everything for Hannelís not to weep herself. There had been a time when Hannelís thought Bilbo would stay with them forever. A brief moment, between when his love for her father first bloomed and when Bolg stole him away, when she imagined Bilbo becoming like another father. She had loved that thought, that possibility--but she had not realized until now that Bilbo leaving had been another kind of loss. The loss of what might have been, in a kinder world.

 _I’ve missed you so much,_ she wanted to say. Instead, she smiled, though the tears in her eyes betrayed her. “Yes, I think he would like that.”

Glóin reached into his cloak and produced a small prayerbook, which he passed to Bilbo after flipping to the proper page. The Khuzdul was not translated into Westron, but both Hannelís and Glóin knew that Bilbo had learned his letters from the Company. That was not to say he understood what the words meant--he didn’t, save for a handful of the most elementary Khuzdul he had picked up from context--but he could sound them out, and that was enough. He knew why the words were important, at least. They were for Thorin.

Hannelís began slowly, Bilbo adding his voice after the first word: “Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba.” _Glorified and sanctified be Mahal’s great name._ Beside them, Gimli and Glóin murmured: _Amen._

They continued through the prayer. Hannelís had no need for a prayerbook; she had spoken these words often enough that they were written on her heart, no matter how much she wished they weren’t. Bilbo, meanwhile, formed each word with care, the guttural sounds foreign on his tongue. Hannelís wondered if they felt somehow familiar, too--if they transported him back across time and space, so he could almost hear Thorin’s voice again, whispering in his ear. _Chaim sheli. My life._

And there it was again, just as she thought it. _Chaim--life, life._ “Y’hei sh’lama raba min sh’maya, v’chaim aleinu v’al kol am Durin, v’imru—”

“Amen.” _May there be abundant peace from above, and life, for us and for all of Durin’s Folk, and let us say: Amen._ Only Gimli and Glóin answered their prayer.

One line remained. “Oseh shalom bimromav, hu ya’aseh shalom aleinu v’al kol am Durin…” _May the one who creates peace on high, bring peace to us and to all of Durin’s Folk…_

As she spoke this final line, Hannelís looked out at the others. The four other Hobbits all stood at attention, hands clasped and heads bowed in respect. Gandalf leaned forward on his staff, gazing at Bilbo with a look of both compassion and pity, as though he regretted leading Bilbo into peril all those years ago when he all but conscripted him into Thorin’s Company. The Wizard could see how wounded Bilbo was still, even now, by Thorin’s death. And, at last, Lord Elrond--he stood with eyes closed, his brow furrowed as it nearly always was.

Gratitude swept through Hannelís then--for them all. By being here, simply standing here and listening, they had helped Hannelís and Bilbo fulfill this deed, say this prayer for Thorin and Fíli and Kíli. Normally, the prayer ended with the words she had just spoken, speaking only of Durin’s Folk, but suddenly Hannelís felt compelled to add another line, in appreciation of an act that might seem strange and small to them but, to her, meant the world.

“V’al kol yosh’vei tevel,” she murmured, as Bilbo halted under the new, unwritten words. _May the one who creates peace on high, bring peace to us and to all of Durin’s Folk, and to all who dwell here._ “V’imru--” _And let us say…_

She felt both Gimli and Glóin glance at her as they noted her addition. “Amen,” they murmured in unison.

Slowly, everyone dispersed into the crisp morning, first Gandalf and then the Hobbits, guiding a sniffling Bilbo back into the warmth of the Last Homely House. Glóin murmured another prayer before squeezing Hannelís’ arm bracingly. He and Gimli disappeared inside, too, surely off to find a spot of food to break their fast. Then it was only Hannelís and Lord Elrond there.

The Elf-lord stood on the edge of the high courtyard, his hands resting on the railing. As he gazed out on the Vale of Imladris, a flurry of snow began to fall. It was only the slightest dusting of flakes, but her heart delighted in it all the same. She had always loved winter best. Spring had its joys, and there was nothing like watching the world turn from summer to autumn, when the first hint of chill arrived. But there was something about mountains capped in snow and icy glacial lakes that just felt _right_ to her. Perhaps it was the Dwarf in her.

Hannelís joined the Elf-lord at the railing, breathing in the brisk, snow-tinged air. “Thank you for your help, my lord,” she said without looking at him. “We could not have done that without you.”

For a long time, Lord Elrond was silent. When at last he spoke, it was nothing like what Hannelís expected him to say. “I saw your father praying once, one morning here in Rivendell, him and his whole company. You were there, as well. You faced east, toward Erebor. And when your prayers were done, he alone remained, his eyes fixed on the rising sun as though he could see the Lonely Mountain through the morning haze.”

The Elf-lord regarded the Misty Mountains that hugged Rivendell’s eastern edge, his gaze so focused it seemed he was witnessing the memory unfold before him anew. “I understood then, though I could not in good conscience alter the counsel I had already given. Thorin’s quest was reckless; it endangered far more than his company. Yet seeing how he yearned for home, even a home he had not seen since he was a child…I understood his fierce desire. It is one I have often shared.”

When he met her gaze now, Lord Elrond’s kind face was marred by sorrow. “My home was taken from me, too, long ago. For centuries, I dreamed of returning. The salt-sweet smell of the ocean, the call of birds reaching land after days at sea…” He closed his eyes and inhaled deep, as though he was there now. As he exhaled and looked back toward the mountains, his eyes were shining. “But that was more than an age ago, and that home is lost, buried beneath the waves.”

“But Erebor,” he continued, “was not wholly lost. Unlike my home, it _could_ be reclaimed. And it was.” His silver eyes found hers again, and the tears Hannelís thought she had seen were gone. She could not be sure they had ever really been there. “Against all hope, Thorin regained his home, though he did not live to see it renewed. It is a tragedy. He deserved to have Erebor longer. You deserved to have _him_ longer. But fate can too often be cruel.”

There was something healing in hearing the Elf-lord say that. He was wise and kind--and more than that, his heart had no claim on Thorin. He seemed to respect him in a discerning way, a way that both saw their similarities _and_ her father’s flaws. Yet it was different, hearing these words from _him_ and not Dwalin or Rivkís or Dís. Of course they who loved Thorin wished he had lived longer, wished he’d been afforded the time to guide Hannelís and see his home restored. Of course _they_ would rail against fate and its cruelty. But to hear the same from Lord Elrond…it mended a part of the aching in her heart. It comforted her more than she could say.

“If I may…” The Elf-lord paused before continuing. “Erebor was your father’s home, but that does not mean you must be bound to it forever. Beyond the question of crown and duty, you are not obligated to give your life over to _his_ dream. You are allowed to live for yourself. As a father…” He smiled and chuckled, plainly thinking of his children. “I would never ask them to be anything but themselves, nor would I place the burden of _my_ loss and _my_ grief on their shoulders.”

 _He did not force his loss on me._ The words were on her tongue, but…she knew they were false. Thorin _had_ placed it on her shoulders, hers and Fíli’s and Kíli’s--the whole staggering weight of his hope and his grief, never slowing to wonder if his dreams were right or prudent or even possible. From her birth, he had made his cause hers. And she had accepted that weight for so long, never minding how it crushed her, because it was the thing he _died_ for, and didn’t dying for it make it true? _No._ It just made him dead. Him, and her kin.

Thorin’s dream being true for _Thorin_ did not make it true for _her._

“I cannot tell you what path to choose,” said Lord Elrond, shaking her out of her thoughts, “but I _would_ advise you to take advantage of the rare opportunity before you now.” She had no idea what this _rare opportunity_ was. Fortunately, he told her: “There are many here in Rivendell who may have wisdom to offer. Gandalf has already given his, whether you sought it or not. And in my way, I have given mine. Have you spoken to Aragorn of this?”

He did not ask if she had _met_ Aragorn, beyond the general meeting everyone shared at the council. No, the Elf-lord’s question carried with it an understanding of familiarity between them. Hannelís wondered how deep that understanding went. “No,” she said at last, “I have not considered it.”

“I would encourage you to do so,” said Lord Elrond. “I believe you and he have more in common than you know. He has walked a hard path on his road to kingship. His perspective may prove invaluable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo saying kaddish for Thorin is 🥺😭
> 
> If you're interested, I wrote a ficlet about Elrond seeing Thorin's Company pray in Rivendell. It's separate from this AU where Hannelís exists, but it's probably my favorite fic I've written. So of course I had to reference it 😌
> 
> ANYWAY, one cool thing about writing this fic so far is that it's actually changing how I feel about Thorin (in a positive way). Thorin has always been one of my favorite characters and he was the first character I cried over when I read THE HOBBIT at…8? But thinking through what it would actually be like to be raised by someone with such an intense, relentless desire--and have that desire foisted upon you from a very young age…it's making my love for Thorin more complex.
> 
> I see his flaws much more clearly now, and like, I fully agree with Dís that Thorin should NOT have undertaken the quest because, I mean…their father disappeared attempting the same quest, Thorin built a good life for his people in exile, he should have focused on what was best for THEM, which was having a living king (and heirs) who protected them and provided for them and didn't just up and take all of the most important people away (Fíli and Kíli but also a good chunk of Thorin's Company like Balin, Dwalin, Glóin, etc. who are lords in their own right) to risk their lives on a near-impossible quest.
> 
> AT THE SAME TIME, as a Jewish writer who is actively bringing out the Jewish elements in Tolkien's Dwarves, the yearning for Erebor (which in THE HOBBIT, at least, is the obvious Jerusalem substitute) goes so deep and like, I WANT Thorin to reclaim Erebor because that longing for Jerusalem is woven throughout Jewish tradition and the sack of Erebor reads so much to me like the destruction of the First and Second Temples (by Babylon and Rome, respectively) that forced the Israelites/Jews into exile for hundreds/thousands of years. Like UGH the diasporan nature of Tolkien's Dwarves, they are an exilic people always facing east and gazing over mountains and across continents toward home and UGH!!!!!!
> 
> ANYWAY, so on one hand I absolutely understand Thorin's drive to return to Erebor like on an actually very deep and profound spiritual level, BUT on the other hand I also believe Thorin's quest was reckless and doomed to fail in some way. (And it DID fail, because…he and his heirs died.) In the context of this fic, I've really done a 180 between Hannelís wanting to honor her father's memory/honor the throne, and Hannelís realizing it wasn't fair for Thorin to put that pressure on her, and what she wants matters. Of course, this is all complicated by her being a queen--HOWEVER, there ARE others in the House of Durin who could take her place, so it's not quite like…Aragorn choosing not to be king, for example (although arguably, Faramir would have been an excellent ruling steward). And she and Aragorn will discuss that soon!
> 
> Anyway, wow, I wrote a lot. Please let me know your thoughts!! Let's have a philosophical debate in the comments.


	34. A New Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a surprise arrival from Erebor, Hannelís reaches her breaking point.
> 
> Content warning for suicidal ideation.

December brought with it a flurry of snow that dusted the Vale of Imladris in a crystal sheet of white. The ground was not yet fully covered, and when the sun shined just right, the snow looked like diamonds in the grass. Winter was well on its way; the mountains surrounding Rivendell were all well-packed and would not melt until late in the spring. The High Pass was officially closed to them. When the time came to return east, the Dwarves would need to take the Redhorn Pass, or seek the West-gate into Khazad-dûm.

Yet just as it seemed ice and snow had sealed the High Pass for the season, a lone Dwarf descended from the Misty Mountains. His beard was still white from the half-melted, half-frozen snow when Hannelís, Glóin, and Gimli met him in the Last Homely House. He was in the Hall of Fire when they arrived, his back to them. He lowered his hood as they approached, revealing a balding head covered in tattoos.

“Dwalin!” cried Hannelís. In truth, she had entered the hall with some trepidation. When Lord Elrond sent word that another Dwarf from Erebor had arrived, she feared it would be Dáin with more news of Mordor, or some other messenger sent at his request. To see Dwalin was a surprise--and a very good one at that.

The tattooed Dwarf stood and faced her, bowing low. “ _Azbad._ ” Yet his face remained hard as stone. He did not share her joy at their reunion. He shared a dark look with Glóin, who Hannelís noted had gone similarly stony-faced.

None of this comforted her. Worry tightened around her heart like a fist. “What happened?”

“I could ask you the same,” said Dwalin, as he glowered around the hall to confirm they were alone. He stepped toward her, head shaking in disbelief. “You _left._ Mordor was on our doorstep, and you ran away like a--a _child._ And now Glóin tells me he fears you may never return. I cannot make sense of this.”

In a flash, the worry became betrayal. Hannelís looked to Glóin for some explanation, and for a long, drawn-out moment the four Dwarves stood there, the only sound the crackling of the fire. At last, Gimli prompted his father. “Abba?”

Glóin’s eyes were beseeching. “Please, _azbad,_ ” he began, “you must understand. It was alarming, you joining us on this mission--and it was not as though you offered any clarification. You refused to discuss it, all those weeks on the road. And so I…sent word to Dwalin while we were still on the High Pass, so that at least he would know where you were.”

“If I had wanted him to know, I would have _told_ him,” she answered. “It was not your information to give.”

Glóin dipped his head in deference. “Yes, _azbad,_ ” he said, “but we were concerned--”

 _We._ Whether he meant himself and Gimli, or he and Dwalin, or all of them or even more combined--it made no difference. It only made the betrayal sting more, because it made this seem _planned,_ like some sort of _\--intercession_ to salvage her rule and bring her to heel. “Your concern does not matter.”

“And what of Dís’ concern?” came Dwalin’s retort, sharp and accusing. Again, he shook his head, and his face twisted with remembered grief. “How could you leave her, Lís? She returned to Erebor for _you,_ she needs you--”

Hannelís forced herself to laugh, because the alternative was to acknowledge the guilt ripping through her like a blade. “Dís is stronger than any of us,” she said, hating herself for her cruelty. “She does not _need_ anyone.”

Dwalin’s answer was swift: “Just because she _is_ strong does not mean she should _have_ to be.” He growled in frustration. “She has suffered enough, Lís. What would Thorin say if he saw you abandon her--abandon _all_ of us? Throw away everything he worked for--everything he _died_ for?”

 _I have thought all this, and more._ Every day, Hannelís asked herself these questions. It hurt more than she could say to have Dwalin hurl them at her now like barbs, trying to see which would stick and draw blood. “That’s not fair,” she said, hearing the tears in her voice and hating them.

“Fuck _fair,_ Lís, he _died_ for _you,_ and I will not stand by while you dishonor him--”

“He died for himself!” she shouted, and for a moment that was enough to silence Dwalin’s assault.

Her words echoed off the vaulted ceilings of the hall, and a part of her cringed, knowing there would certainly be Elves nearby who had overheard. But she could not shrink away from this now. “How dare you ask what he would say? He was _my_ father, my _king._ I have only _ever_ sought to honor him. We will never know _what he would say,_ because he’s dead. I am in this position _because_ of him.”

Before Dwalin could defend Thorin, Hannelís kept going--because if she did not say it all now, she feared she never would. “He did not die for me,” she said, the tears hot on her cheeks, “he died for his _crown._ We did not need Erebor; _he_ did. If he had just…found it within himself to be _content_ in Ered Luin--for _our_ sake if not for his--then he would still be alive. Fíli and Kíli would still be alive. Dís and I would have our family. You speak of her suffering, yet you absolve my father for his part in it. And what of _my_ suffering? Have _I_ not suffered enough?”

Dáin’s treachery was on the tip of her tongue, but she could not let it loose. If Dwalin ever learned the truth of what Dáin had plotted--and with his son’s knowledge--there would be no assuaging his anger. He would insist they be stoned as traitors--or better yet, he would kill them himself. But if they died, what then? The Dwarves of Erebor were on their side. So few of Thorin’s Company or Ered Luin remained. If Hannelís killed their lord and his beloved heir…her people could turn against her. She might die, anyway.

Hannelís shut her eyes, blocking out the vision that rose swiftly in her then. Dwalin broken and bloodied at her feet, giving his life to defend his queen against all odds. Glóin dead, too, along with the whole remnant of Thorin’s Company who still called Erebor home. They would all defend her. And they would all die. Their families erased from memory.

And Dís…even if she did survive, somehow, out of her people’s great mercy and fervent love for Durin’s blood…what life would that leave her? Hannelís would do them all a kindness by stepping aside. She would be _protecting_ those she loved--even if protecting them _meant_ abandoning them. It felt impossible that those could be the same thing, protecting and abandoning. But perhaps they were both true.

It was as though Dwalin did not recognize her. For a horrible moment, he seemed beyond words, and even Glóin and Gimli were shocked into silence. Then disgust reigned over all else, and Dwalin shook his head. “It is good Thorin died,” he said, his voice low and unforgiving, “for hearing this would kill him. You are not deserving of his crown.”

Something shattered in her then, something that could never be put back together again. _You do not deserve it._ It was something she might expect to hear from Dáin, or murmured by an ironclad Dwarf as he shuffles past. _You do not deserve his crown._ To hear it from Dwalin… _that means it must be true. I am a dour and detested queen._

“You are right.” Suddenly, she could stay there no longer. She turned and departed the Hall of the Fire, blocking out the sound of Gimli and Glóin calling her name. The heat from the flames was suffocating, clutching at her throat and burning her. She could not bear it. She needed air.

She flew down the steps of the Last Homely House and let her feet carry her across the long, narrow bridge that separated Rivendell from the rest of the valley. Dwalin’s words echoed in her mind, harsh and unrelenting. She was so caught up in her own head, she did not see Aragorn and Elrond’s sons until she was nearly upon them.

“Hannelís,” said Aragorn, dipping his head in greeting. Beside him, the Elf-lord’s tall, gray-eyed sons bowed to the Dwarf-queen but said nothing. One of them--she thought he was Elrohir, but she could not be sure--had a stag thrown over his shoulder. Clearly, they were fresh back from the hunt.

Hannelís nearly bowled into Aragorn, so close were they when she finally registered him. She was only half a step from the end of the bridge, but when she twisted to avoid him, she lost her balance. Her heart leapt into her throat as she fell sideways--but then Aragorn caught her arm and steadied her, pulling her back onto solid ground.

“Are you all right?” he asked with concern. He plainly did not mean physically; he could see she was troubled. _He knows me too well,_ she thought ruefully. He still had not let go of her arm.

Hannelís hesitated. In truth, if there was anyone’s company in Rivendell that might soothe her right now, it was Aragorn’s. Yet she did not want to give him the wrong impression. Worse, she would hate _Arwen_ to have the wrong impression, even for a moment--and her brothers watching her walk off with Aragorn, if they had any inkling of their past together, could easily lead to just that.

When she did not answer, Aragorn murmured to Elladan and Elrohir in Sindarin. _Go on ahead,_ he said. He had made his choice, improper impressions be damned. And whatever their thoughts on the matter, the twins inclined their heads in farewell and took their leave.

It was all too much. The shock of Dwalin’s arrival, the hurt of his words, the stress of almost falling to her death paired with the _guilt_ of maybe harming Aragorn’s reputation…already, fresh tears lodged in her throat like a rock. She groaned and pulled away. “I do not want to burden you.”

But Aragorn only cleared the distance between them again, touching her shoulder lightly. “You are not a burden, Hannelís.” She grimaced at the lie. Surely, it was a lie. _He is only being kind._ His brow furrowed. “What was the news from Erebor? A scout said someone had arrived.”

“Nothing has happened,” she answered, stepping away and turning toward the path that led up out of the valley. At least when Aragorn followed this time, he made no more attempts to physically console her. She did not look back at him as they walked. Already, the tears stung her eyes.

“It’s me,” she said with a wince, and then: “It’s _Dáin._ It’s the fact that my people have never loved or wanted me, and if Dáin ever made good on his desire to assassinate me, they would _cheer._ ”

She stopped suddenly and spun to face him. “He’s already tried to kill me once. Now he would use the threat from Mordor as a cloak to try it again. And if he fails…how can I be sure he will not _keep_ trying? Even if I returned to Erebor _today_ and wed Thorin before Dáin and all his followers, even if I gave him strong, healthy heirs, even if I met Mordor’s army on the battlefield and crushed them _myself--_ it might never be enough. And all the while, I am losing what little support I have left. I cannot live like this, and I do not want to.”

 _I do not want to._ The words rang in her ears, heavy on the air. They warred in her mind, competing for meaning. _I do not want to,_ or _I do not_ intend _to._ Was it a desire, or a statement? And what was the intention? Perhaps it was only an intention to _leave,_ to abdicate and find some new purpose…

But a darker interpretation stirred in her heart. There were other ways she could escape her crown, if she did not have the courage to do what needed to be done. Before she was fully aware of what she was doing, she hugged her stomach, imagining the scar beneath the fibers of her tunic. Her fingers lightly traced the shape of it, carved there by Orcrist a lifetime ago.

“Hannelís.” Once more, Aragorn’s voice was there, pulling her out of her thoughts. He watched her warily. Something in her knew he was remembering her scar. Perhaps for the first time, he was putting the pieces together. His gaze caught on her arm before he pulled it away, meeting her eyes at last. “Hannelís, is that how Dáin--”

 _No._ Hannelís could not be sure whether the sound she made was a laugh or a sob. “No, _I_ did that. Dáin did not harm me.”

In a flash, Aragorn’s concern gave way to pity, for _her,_ and that was too much for Hannelís to bear. _It would be so easy._ The thought crashed down on her like a wave, yet it was comforting, too. As though she would not mind drowning. “I do not know what to do,” she heard herself say. _So why must I try?_ “I don’t know who I am if I am not a queen.” _So I should die a queen, and waste no time doing it. Die now, instead of lose myself._

It was almost like he knew her thoughts, although she did not speak them aloud. He heard them, between her words. “Hannelís.” His voice was so gentle, it ached. Hannelís had to shut her eyes to block out the pain.

“I cannot do this,” she whispered. _It will be the death of me. And that would not be so bad._

For a long time, Aragorn said nothing. The wind whistled around them, and she felt snowflakes falling on her cheeks, mingling with her tears. She wished she could unsay everything. She wished Dwalin had not come. She wished her father had not died. She wished the others had _let_ her die, all those years ago. And more than anything…she wished she was not so broken.

“Then come with us.”

Hannelís opened her eyes. There was no pity in Aragorn’s face now. His look was firm and unflinching. “Come with us,” he repeated, and it sounded like _come with me._ “Risk your life for something great, or succumb. But do not wallow in sorrow and doubt. You are strong, Hannelís. _Fight_ with us, and find your future along the way. You are not without hope.”

 _There is no hope._ “I have no future beyond Erebor,” she answered. Yet a part of her yearned to be proven wrong. “If I am not a queen, I am nothing. I belong nowhere.”

Aragorn considered her words. High above them, an eagle cried, and they watched it soar south on snow-beaten wings. Flurries swirled around them, catching in her hair. And Aragorn met her eyes once more. “What of Rohan?”

 _Rohan._ She closed her eyes and saw the yellow fields and windswept plains, and the endless hills rolling until they disappeared beyond the horizon. The White Mountains, its high peaks still snowy even in summer. Then Aragorn was speaking: “I knew a woman fresh from her girlhood, bold and fearless and wild as the land. It suited you, Rohan. Like you were fated for it, and it for you.”

And her memories of the golden land mingled with memories of _him,_ of soft kisses and secret fire and tumbling in the grass beneath a roaring waterfall. Something stirred in her, but she pushed it down. _He is only being kind._ He was only showing her where hope _might_ be, if she was willing to look for it.

She opened her eyes. “What if they will not have me?” The company, she meant. The Fellowship of the Ring.

And Aragorn took her hand, and his face was so kind, it broke her heart. _Mahal, I love him still._

“You have my confidence. They will not dare deny it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter uhhh stirred up some stuff for me, so sorry that it’s, you know…the way it is. It got a bit darker than I intended. But Aragorn is back in full swing as Hannelís’ personal manic pixie dream girl, so brighter things are on the horizon.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed and as always, please let me know your thoughts!


	35. Into Hollin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ring goes south. [Fellowship theme blares]

In the waning days of December, with the sun low on the horizon, the Fellowship left Rivendell. Lord Elrond farewelled them in honor and faith, bidding them well on their journey. The whole host of Rivendell gathered to see them off, including Bilbo, who wept bitterly to be parted from Frodo and his friends. Legolas lamented to Arwen and her brothers that they had such little time together, he and his cousins who met so rarely. Markedly, Aragorn and Arwen shared no obvious good-bye.

Dwalin and Glóin were already long gone. There had been no forgiveness, no understanding when Hannelís told them she would not return to Erebor. No sooner had _abdication_ spilled forth from her lips than Dwalin’s face closed off and he departed swiftly from their guest-house and into the cold night. He and Glóin departed for the Lonely Mountain the very next morning.

Dwalin said nothing, spoke no word to Hannelís before his parting. It tore at her heart, but some part of her had expected it, this hatred. She knew she deserved it. Still…the wound was deep. Gimli assured her Dwalin would come around, in the end--whatever _the end_ was. But despite Gimli’s words, his eyes betrayed him. Even he could not stomach her decision, no matter how valiantly he tried to comprehend it.

The abdication was as official as it could be, for now. There was little precedent for such a thing in Dwarven history, Glóin had murmured to her that night after Dwalin stormed out in anger. It would fall to her council to fashion an edict stripping her of her crown and titles. If Dís refused the throne--which surely, she would--then Dáin was next in line. And after Dáin, Thorin--and if Thorin died without issue, the rule would fall to Dwalin in Balin’s absence. And after Dwalin, Glóin himself, as Óin had followed Balin to Moria. But Glóin knew as well as Hannelís that the crown would never reach as far as him. Once it fell within Dáin’s reach, he would never let go.

Hannelís hated Dáin, yes--yet even in her great resentment, she still had to admit he was a strong, beloved lord. He was ambitious and given to isolationism, and prejudice lingered in his heart…but despite his deep faults, he was sharp and judicious, and his people adored him. More importantly, his military experience far outweighed the paltry exposure Hannelís had to such things. She had fought in one battle, and trained diligently for years--but no more. With the threat of Mordor drawing ever nearer, Dáin’s skill in war was a singular comfort to Hannelís as she fought the overwhelming guilt that raged within her.

Eventually, it was decided that Gimli would join the Fellowship, at least for the time being. They would travel first through Hollin, a land to the south of Rivendell, which was home to the old West-gate into Khazad-dûm. There remained the mystery of Balin’s expedition to uncover.

The current plan was for the Fellowship to cross over the Misty Mountains through the Redhorn Pass, if winter had not rendered it impassable. If that failed, they would seek the West-gate, and Gimli would have his answer. But if the pass was open to them, Gimli would enter through Azanulbizar and seek out the Twenty-first Hall, the last place where Balin’s colony was known to dwell. From there, he could carry the news back to Erebor, be it good or bad.

The Hobbits were delighted to have Hannelís join them. Pippin remarked that it made their quest all the more like old Bilbo’s, having one of the original members of Thorin’s Company come along with them. Legolas was less concerned with Hannelís’ addition and more disturbed by Gimli’s; he was well aware the ruddy Dwarf shared his father’s grudge against the Elves of Mirkwood--and, of course, he _was_ a Dwarf, which earned him no respect in the Elf-prince’s eyes. Hannelís, at least, Legolas _knew_ …and her mixed heritage was, for him, some consolation.

Boromir was harder to convince. Hannelís had almost forgotten about Gondor’s biased views toward women warriors, but the young captain was all too happy to remind her. He openly doubted her ability to defend _herself,_ let alone anyone else. He thought her a liability--and the Fellowship could afford no more of those, since the Hobbits were themselves far from proficient with a blade. But at Aragorn’s suggestion, a bit of sparring was enough to put Boromir’s doubts to rest. Neither Hannelís nor Boromir were any match for Aragorn, but she held her own against the Man of Gondor, even managing to best him on more than one occasion.

And then there was Gandalf. He sought her out the day Aragorn announced his intention for her to join them. “I would caution you to rethink your choice,” he told her. “The Ring, it is greater than any of the Dwarven-rings of old. Its power corrupts and destroys. I fear of what may come of your proximity to it. Remember Thrór, and Thráin. Remember the doom of Erebor.”

A shiver ran through her then. As fate would have it, they stood beneath the same balcony where Gandalf and Lord Elrond had once spoken of her family and the strain of madness that plagued it. _Can you swear Thorin Oakenshield will not also fall?_ That had been the Elf-lord’s quest, keen and probing. Her father _did_ fall--but not because of any ring.

But Gandalf knew not that Hannelís and Thorin had overheard them, all those years ago. And he had forgotten something important. “That was the Arkenstone,” she said. “The Dwarven-rings did not turn their bearers mad. It drove them to greed, yes, to hoard wealth--and dragons sacked their kingdoms in their hunger for treasure. So your worry is…what, that I will desire gold a bit too much?”

It was a common misconception about Dwarves, loving gold. The Dwarven-rings had rather ruined their reputation in that regard. As a result, a large proportion of Middle-earth believed Dwarves to be creatures of greed and excess, delving ever deeper for more, because no amount of wealth was ever enough. Yes, there was the tale of Durin’s Bane, released by King Durin VI in the mithril mines of Khazad-dûm. But that was a terrible tragedy, not a marker of all Dwarves. Yet between the rings and the fiery monster, the libelous stereotypes had persisted.

“It was never just the Arkenstone,” said the Wizard. “Thrór found the Arkenstone _because_ of his ring, and the sickness was bound to his line evermore.”

“The Arkenstone is beyond my reach.” Hannelís had ordered it buried with her father. It would never be removed, for none would dare disturb the tomb of a king. “Its madness cannot touch me.”

“I would not be so sure,” he answered, his look grim. “The Arkenstone awakened something in your line, and whatever power the Arkenstone held, the Ring possesses far more. I fear you may be vulnerable to the same sickness that took your father, and his fathers before him.”

“I am not my father.” The words were said before she had fully considered them. And she heard her father’s voice speaking over hers, as clear as though he was standing beside her now. _I am not my grandfather._

Thorin was not Thrór. Yet he fell nonetheless.

Hannelís could not bring herself to look at the Wizard. She did not want to see what lurked behind his eyes, be it pity or fear or distrust. At last, she said, “Have I not proven myself to be different? I rejected the Arkenstone. I helped rebuild Dale, and fostered good relations with Mirkwood--I did things my father would _never_ have done. Does that mean nothing?”

“Perhaps,” allowed Gandalf. In the end, he could not bar her from coming; Frodo had already accepted her help gladly, and it was ultimately the Ring-bearer’s decision. Still, she felt the Wizard’s eyes on her as the Fellowship made its way through Hollin and toward the Redhorn Pass. Her, _and_ Boromir. They seemed to have garnered the most suspicion in his eyes, whether that suspicion was earned or not.

They traveled by night and slept by day. Only once did they attempt to move in the light, and were nearly caught in the open by a hoard of crebain sent north by Saruman. After that, they took greater care to camp near landmarks with good enough cover to fool even the most determined winged spies. Each day was split into six watches, where all but the Hobbits would stand guard over their sleeping fellows.

That afternoon, Hannelís had the fifth watch. Their camp was in the foothills of the Misty Mountains, a bare patch of earth they had cleared in the shadow of a mass of boulders carried down by ancient glaciers. Snow surrounded them, and a fire burned in the midst of the nine sleeping forms, to keep the cold at bay. The fire could never glow too brightly. She fed the flames enough to keep them from dying out, but as the day dimmed around her, she was eventually forced to snuff it out entirely. She watched the tiny fire peter out with a shiver of regret.

Aragorn had the watch after her, the final round before night fell and their journey would begin again. The sun was hanging into the west when she shook his shoulder to rouse him. He stood to his full height and stretched, swallowing a yawn. “Nothing to report, I trust?”

Hannelís shook her head. “Just a goat, come down from the mountains. It had an impressive beard.”

Aragorn grinned, his laughter almost silent, to avoid waking their fellows. Yet as soon as the smile was there, it was gone again, and he was all seriousness. He gazed at the hilly plain around them, and as the seconds wore on, she could see the sorrow returning to his eyes.

It had been there for days, though he strove to hide it. Ever since they left Rivendell, a persistent gloom had settled around him. If the others noticed, they said nothing. But it pulled at her heart, his sadness and her concern for him. The hurt that _he_ was hurt, whatever the nature of the hurt itself.

“You should get some rest,” he said at last, settling down beside her.

“I will,” she said, though she made no move to do so. Aragorn uncorked his water-skin and drank deep, not looking directly at her. He still looked pained. “Aragorn…” she began, before hesitating. His gaze drifted down--not toward _her,_ but toward the ground--and she knew he knew that she had seen. “What is it?”

For a long time, he was silent. The silence was so firm and unflagging, she wondered if he would ever respond. She was about to give up in favor of sleep when he finally said, “Arwen.”

Just that. Just her name. And there was so much _grief_ there, such agony, Hannelís half-expected him to say she had died. But Arwen was not dead. She had been there, at their leave-taking. Legolas had personally bid her farewell. And Aragorn had not. At the time, Hannelís had not paid it much mind. If anything, she assumed they had shared a private good-bye. Now, she was not so sure.

At last, he continued: “She will leave Middle-earth with her kin, rather than be sundered from them forever.” She heard the tears in his voice before she saw them, wetting his beard on his cheeks. “I believed her choice had been made long ago, with _me._ But her family petitioned her, begged her to reconsider. And she did. She weighed her love for them against me, and found me wanting.”

Hannelís’ heart ached for him. She reached for his hand, but he pulled away. “I do not mean that,” Aragorn murmured, sighing. “It was not any deficiency she saw in me, nor any lack of love. It was an impossible choice. I should not judge her decision.”

 _Your heart is broken._ That was what Hannelís wanted to say. _Sometimes, we say things we do not mean when we’re in pain._ But Aragorn held himself to such a high standard, she did not think it would help. So instead, she simply said, “I am sorry.”

He nodded his thanks, too grieved for words. They sat there for a while, watching the sun fall farther and farther as night creeped in from the east. Hannelís did not want to leave him, now that she understood his sorrow. For his part, Aragorn didn’t prompt her to rest again, nor did he give any indication of wanting to be alone. And so they sat there in silent company as the sky turned pink.

“How are you?” The question came with the first star, its light still faint above them as it struggled to be seen against the fading sun. Hannelís looked at Aragorn, frowning like she did not know what he meant--even though she _thought_ she knew very well. “I have wondered, though there has not been an opportunity to ask.”

It _was_ what she thought. Hannelís inhaled deep before looking back at the sky. Already, another star had emerged. Durin’s Crown would be visible soon. It was one of the first constellations to appear at this time of year. “Better,” she said, still not meeting his gaze, “and worse, too.”

Another breath. “I thought I was past this.” _This_ being her grief, her despair, that sharp longing to join her kin in their tombs of stone. “For years, I tried to forget the pain, because…I had to, because if I dwelled on it, it would destroy me. And eventually, I really believed it was gone. I felt _healed,_ or as good as. And then I heard Dáin saying those terrible things, and it brought it _all_ back again, everything I'd tried so hard to bury.”

Aragorn did not say anything. He was listening to her, not trying to _fix_ her. She was grateful for that. “I felt trapped,” she said, wincing at the memory of the past months while her decision had tormented her. “That was the worst thing. For me, _trapped_ is a dangerous feeling--because if trapped is _permanent,_ then there’s only _one_ solution.”

He understood what she meant. If she was trapped on every side, if there was no way to _win_ without betraying her people or risking Dáin’s wrath, then the only way to free herself was in death. “At the very least,” she sighed, “I no longer feel that way. For the first time in a _long_ time--maybe _ever_ …I am free. And that is good. But it’s not that simple. I have failed my people. I am a villain in their eyes _and_ mine. The guilt is horrible.”

“Good,” said Aragorn, and for a moment, Hannelís worried he would tell her she _should_ feel guilty, because she made the wrong choice. Instead, he told her, “If you felt no guilt after making such a difficult decision, then you would be heartless. You are no villain, Hannelís. You are surviving. That is an important distinction.”

The night was encroaching faster every minute. As if on cue, Legolas began stirring. Hannelís and Aragorn shared a look; their conversation was over. Before the Elf awoke, Hannelís reached over and squeezed Aragorn’s hand, just once, a gesture of thanks. Then in one fluid movement, he stood, pulling her to her feet.

Legolas’ eyes fluttered open as their hands fell apart. Across the way, Gimli sat up and gave a great yawn. Though they had little in common, and even less mutual affection, both Elf and Dwarf took in the night sky with a grin. Dozens of stars sparkled above them now. “The Valacirca,” said Legolas, his voice still rough from sleep.

Hannelís and Aragorn looked up reflexively, seeking out the constellation for themselves. “ _Valacirca,_ ” said Gimli with disdain, pulling a face. “It’s Durin’s Crown.”

She met Aragorn’s eyes. “Valacirca,” he murmured, too low for the Dwarf to hear.

“Oh, please,” scoffed Hannelís as he laughed. “That is Durin’s Crown, without a doubt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn and Hannelís are both sad, it would sure be terrible if they…comforted each other. Unfortunately, with eight other people around, it's hard to find some privacy. (At least with Gandalf gone soon, he won't be able to cockblock their soon-to-be-reignited mutual attraction?)
> 
> Next up: KHAZAD-DÛM--and finally an answer for the Dwarves as to what, exactly, happened to Balin's expedition.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed, and please don't hesitate to let me know your thoughts!


	36. Drums in the Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship discovers what became of Balin's expedition…and uncovers a far greater horror in the deeps of Moria.

In the first months following the Battle of Five Armies, the Dwarves carried out a gruesome task. A small band, led by Balin and Óin, took on the overwhelming problem of Smaug’s original victims. As the Dwarves of the Iron Hills began excavating long-collapsed tunnels and uncovering forgotten chambers, they found something they did not expect: skeletons by the hundreds.

Balin was amazed the Dwarven remains were so well-preserved, in spite of the long, horrible years. Ordinarily, he said, corpses exposed in wet, open caves would decompose faster, and even the bones should have turned to dust years ago. Yet perhaps the dragon-fire had rendered the caves too dry--and in the absence of living, breathing Dwarves forging masterful works with endless heat and flame, those long-lost corners of Thrór’s kingdom had grown too cold. And these ancient Dwarves of Erebor had endured, against all odds.

It was a morbid effort. Many days, Balin ended his shift in tears after recognizing a Dwarf by the sigil on his helm, a Dwarrow from the still-brilliant gems in her ring. Óin labored alongside him, continuing long after Balin’s grief had forced him to retire, silent tears streaming down his cheeks.

They were Longbeards, Durin’s Folk, all of them. And they deserved a proper burial.

It did something to them, Balin and Óin. As much as they loved Erebor and had yearned to see its glory restored…they had had their fill of death, and there was so very much of it within those halls. And so Balin turned his sights to Khazad-dûm. When he asked who would accompany him, Óin did not hesitate. Ori, too, was eager to go, desperate to make something of himself out from beneath his brothers’ shadows.

Hannelís mourned their departure, but she understood it, too. Eventually, the time had come for a departure of her own.

When the Fellowship at last beheld the West-gate of Moria, still shivering from the blizzard that had plagued them on Caradhras, something pulled at Hannelís. Seeing the Doors of Durin glowing in the moonlight for the first time, the sigil of the Longbeards emblazoned brightly…it was like seeing the Lonely Mountain for the first time. It was like her soul recognized its sheer _Dwarvishness,_ understood instinctively that this was a monument to ancient Dwarven might and skill. Her very breath was stolen away.

Beside her, Gimli whispered, “Baruch atah Mahal ha-Napach, Valareinu, shekacha lo ba’olamo.”

 _Blessed are you Mahal the Smith, our Vala, who has such in his world._ Such beauty, such mastery. Such wonder. “Amen,” she answered, and they shared a grin then, a secret delight just for them. To bear witness to the majesty of Khazad-dûm, the great seat of Dwarvendom…it was an honor beyond words.

If only they had stopped there.

They _knew--_ even if they did not truly _know_ for a certainty, they knew in their hearts--that Balin’s expedition was long gone. Dwalin alone had clung to the hope that his brother was yet alive, despite the deafening silence that had rung out from Khazad-dûm for the past twenty years. They knew something terrible had happened. But knowing is different than seeing. And what they _saw…_

 _Bones._ Hannelís felt them crunch underfoot before Gandalf illuminated his staff to light their way. Her heart dipped in her chest, and her stomach roiled in nausea. Her mind warred against the knowledge--it did not want to believe what it had already recognized, the moment she registered the crushing sensation and the horrible sound flooded her ears. But there was no denying the truth.

“No…” Gimli’s voice was the only confirmation she needed. The raw grief in that one word ripped through her like a tempest sowing devastation in its wake. “ _No._ ” His voice was still hoarse and broken…yet the sorrow hit her ears differently this time.

Hannelís searched for him in the chaos, barely noting the horror rippling through the others like a wave. _We are standing in a mass grave._ The mountain was a tomb, with bodies beyond count. But there among the bones--Gimli held the helm gingerly in his hands, the telltale rune plain for her to see. _Óin. No._

Gimli echoed her thoughts. His face crumpled, and he wailed. _Noooo!_ The cry was unending. “We make for the Gap of Rohan,” Boromir was saying. “We should never have come here.”

 _We should never have come here._ Hannelís shut her eyes, willing the images of her broken, rotting kin to leave her mind--though at the same time, she knew they would dwell there forever, rattling together with the souls of all those she had lost. They were her people. She was not a queen now, but she _was_ then. _I should not have let them go._

The Fellowship had just passed back through the gate when the Watcher came.

It was a monstrous thing. It went for Frodo first, drawn to the Ring. That was how Gandalf explained it later. _Evil will be drawn to the Ring._ Sam’s face went white at the Wizard’s words, and he held Frodo closer than ever, kissing him all over his face until Frodo smiled sadly and clasped Sam’s hands in his and assured him he was well, and the Watcher was long gone. Sam swore not to leave Frodo’s side again, not even for an instant. It was sweet, the Hobbits’ love for each other. It shone brightly enough for her to forget the horrors they had seen, if only for a moment.

Khazad-dûm was nothing like what Hannelís had imagined. She had known, as had all the Dwarves of Erebor, that something horrible had befallen Balin’s colony. Yet in the early years, his letters had been filled with such _hope_ and enthusiasm for the work they were doing here, the halls they were rebuilding…Hannelís had expected to see more of that. Instead, the mountain-hall felt like a festering ruin, a corrupted place whose emptiness seemed to scream at her. And each day, its desolation only stretched on.

Legolas hated Moria most of all. It was unnatural, he said, to live so far beneath the earth with no natural light. At least his father’s caves felt _alive._ He complained that it was suffocating, being here. To his credit, Gimli made few attempts to debate the Elf on the beauty or worthiness of Dwarven halls…though the Dwarf’s silence was due to his immense grief, rather than any particular good tact or patience. Hannelís never responded to Legolas’ grievances. Too often, she thought he was right.

In Moria, her nightmares returned. Plagued by the death of her kin, her mind conjured other deaths, remembered deaths, deaths from more than a lifetime ago. In her dreams, she watched the Lonely Mountain burn in her father’s place. In her memories, she saw Lake-town blazing atop a frozen lake. The dragon-fire was never-ending, and the blood was ever-flowing.

On the third night, they camped in the Twenty-first Hall. The skill of the Dwarves seemed, here, unequaled: the Dwarrowdelf was an incredible sight, with thousands of columns stretching in every direction and reaching so high in the darkness, even Legolas struggled to see where they ended. It was beautiful, in a cold, bleak way. There was no life to the grand hall…only the memory of life. Its tragic beauty made Hannelís weep.

In her dreams, Smaug came. Flames barreled down the Dwarrowdelf, and suddenly Moria was cold and dark no longer. The whole world turned to searing light, and the Fellowship was caught up in the midst of it. They could not escape the hall in time. Dragon-fire blistered their skin and roasted them alive.

Too often, Hannelís had yearned for death. Yet she had never imagined it could hurt this much.

She jerked awake, covered in sweat. Beneath the leather, her tunic was drenched, and her curls stuck to her neck and forehead. But the chill cave air would fix that, given enough time. What it couldn’t fix was her heart, pounding in her chest. Hannelís cast off her cloak and flipped around, keeping her movements as quiet as possible to avoid waking the others.

When she turned, she came face to face with Aragorn. He lay there, wide awake, staring up into the darkness. But as she settled onto her side, he shifted so that he was facing her, too. “Did I wake you?” Hannelís’ voice was scarcely a whisper.

He shook his head. “What did you see?” In her dream, he meant.

Hannelís held her breath while Gimli stirred on her other side. She and Aragorn stared at each other as they waited to see whether he would wake…but then his snoring started up again, and she exhaled in relief. “Bad things,” she summarized, and when he gave her a look that said _say more,_ added, “We died. Here, in flames. It was terrible.”

Aragorn’s brow furrowed, and he reached for her, setting his hand on hers. But it was little comfort. “They must have been so scared,” she whispered, blinking and seeing Balin’s doomed expedition etched into her eyelids, “and felt so alone…” She met Aragorn’s eyes. “They were my people. And they died without me even knowing they were gone. How is that possible?”

 _Shhh._ The sound was but a whisper on the wind. Aragorn moved closer and pulled her to him, and it was only then that she realized she was shivering. Perhaps she had needed her cloak, after all. “It is this place,” he said, pushing her hair out of her face. “It is marred by a shadow none of us can breach. Yet this darkness will not last forever.” His finger brushed her cheek before he pulled his hand back. “There are no dragons here.”

 _He is only being kind,_ she told herself, not for the first time. Aragorn had always been kind, even from the start. Even when he had no cause to be, because they were strangers, and she a foreign queen at that…he had always been too kind, and she had always liked him too much. _He loves Arwen. He is heartbroken. His heart is not_ for _you._ She made a point to keep remembering that.

When morning dawned--not _dawned,_ so much as the Fellowship awoke in the dark and assumed it was day--Gandalf announced they had less than a day ahead of them before they would reach the East-gate. They continued their passage through the Dwarrowdelf, and eventually the columns ended and they found a narrow passage leading out of the Twenty-first Hall. “The beginning of the way out,” the Wizard told them, his staff revealing a glowing grin of relief.

There was a small chamber halfway down the passage. They knew it was there almost as soon as they entered the passage itself, because a dim light issued forth from it, the first natural light they had seen in days. Merry remarked that he would be glad to see the outside again, and Gandalf was forced to quell his excitement; they were still deep underground, and the light was surely drawn down through a deep shaft, rather from an exit leading to the world beyond.

The doors lay half-open, arrows embedded in the rotting wood. Above the doors was an inscription: _Mazarbul._ “The hall of records,” murmured Hannelís. Before she could look back down, she had walked straight into Gimli.

“ _Azbad,_ ” he whispered in a strangled voice. He kept doing that, an uncharitable part of her mused, calling her a queen when she no longer _was_ one. She tried not to correct him, even though it bothered her. She knew it would take some getting used to--for _both_ of them.

She blinked against the light, wondering why Gimli sounded so…and then she saw it. Instead of the rows of bookshelves she might have expected in a chamber named for record-keeping, the room was dominated by a single stone tomb. The runes were etched so large, she could read them from here: _Here lies Balin son of Fundin, Lord of Moria._

Hannelís felt a number of things then. First, and above all else, she grieved Balin’s passing. Suddenly, she wished she had been more patient with him, more willing to hear his advice, more grateful for his help in the early years of her reign. Second, she grieved for _Dwalin._ Her heart broke for him, knowing he would soon learn of his brother’s death, after all these years of not knowing. She lamented that she could be no comfort to him, being so far away, and being a cause for grief _herself._ Fleetingly, she wondered if he still hated her.

Third, she felt _relief._ Because Balin had been given a proper Dwarven burial, unlike all the others they had found before. At first, she took that to mean that he had died before the fall of his colony--and that felt like a small mercy. At least he did not endure a horror such as _that._

But a tomb had no place in a chamber like this. They would not have buried him here unless they had no other choice.

There was a Dwarf huddled against the side of Balin’s tomb, a weighty tome still clutched in his hands. Gandalf was extracting the book with great care as Hannelís stepped closer. Gimli stood on his tiptoes to get a better look at the book in the Wizard’s arms, but Hannelís knelt beside the skeleton. She recognized the scarf, hand-knit in two shades of brown, one a touch grayer than the other. With one hand, she dusted away a cobweb.

“It is Ori’s hand,” said Gimli, and Hannelís looked up. Gimli was tracing runes in the old book, his brown eyes shining with tears. “Ori wrote this.” But Hannelís had known that already.

The Wizard struggled to read Ori’s words--not because it was sloppy, but due to the nature of Dwarven writing. The Dwarves of Erebor used a combination of tengwar and runes, fluidly moving between them depending on what best fit in context. Sindarin loanwords were always written in tengwar, and Khuzdul always in runes, but Westron, Dalish, and other tongues were spelled phonetically in either of the alphabets--sometimes even in a mixture of the two. All of this meant Dwarven writing was often difficult to read, if one was not well-accustomed to it.

“Yesterday being the…tenth of November,” read Gandalf in a halting voice, “Balin, Lord of Moria, fell in Dimrill Dale. He went to look in--no, he went _alone_ to look in Mirrormere. An Orc shot him from behind…we slew the Orc, but many more…I think this is _travelled,_ yes, travelled--or perhaps simply _came_ up the Silverlode…”

Hannelís stood and continued over his shoulder: “But many more came up from the east, up the Silverlode. We rescued Balin’s body, but there followed a sharp battle. Their numbers are too great, and more come all the while.” Her heart twisted horribly as she imagined it. “We have fortified Mazarbul, and erected Balin’s tomb safely here. We have barred the gates, but doubt if we can hold them for long. If no aid comes, it will be a horrible fate to suffer, but I shall hold.”

Beside her, Gimli groaned. Gandalf shifted the tome in his arms, offering her half its weight. It was a clear invitation to read more. And so she inched closer, and they held the book together as she read, “We cannot get out. We cannot get out. Two times, it says that.”

She did not want to keep going, but she did: “They have taken the bridge and the Second Hall. Frár and Lóni and Náli fell there bravely, while the rest retreated to Mazarbul. We still hold the chamber, but hope is fading now. Óin’s party went west five days ago, but today only four returned.”

Gimli’s face crumpled as he remembered his fallen uncle. Hannelís could hear the tears in her own voice. Ori’s writing was so _vivid._ She could feel the fear and pain of her kin as though it was her own. “The pool is up to the wall at the West-gate. The Watcher in the Water…took Óin,” she read as Gimli keened. “We cannot get out. The end comes soon. We hear drums, drums in the deep.”

And then only one line was left, scribbled in a hurried tengwar slanting down the page. Some of the letters curved and warped unevenly, like Ori’s hand was shaking. _Of course his hand was shaking._ Hannelís could barely hear herself say the last three words: “They are coming.”

Hushed silence filled the hall as the Fellowship took in these dark words. Then Gandalf shut the tome and passed it to Gimli. “You shall bring this back to Erebor. Hopefully, it will serve as some comfort to Dáin and his people, to have answers after so much unease.”

At the mention of Dáin, Gimli’s gaze passed to Hannelís, before he inclined his head to the Wizard and accepted the book. It was strange to hear Dáin spoken of as Erebor’s leader…but that was what he was now. Hannelís doubted how much comfort it would bring him, however, remembering his harsh disapproval of Balin’s choice to retake Moria in the first place. More than anything else, she thought it would simply prove Dáin _right--_ it _had_ been a foolish, if valiant, mission. But she was glad for the book to go to Erebor, for Dwalin and Glóin’s sakes.

 _Doom. Doom, doom._ The Fellowship froze as one, listening to what they very much hoped they were not really hearing. _Doom, doom, doom._ The distinct sound of drums. Hannelís and Gimli looked at each other, and she knew they shared the same thought. _We hear drums, drums in the deep._

How had they found them? There was no time to wonder.

Everything happened quickly then. Gandalf attempted to drive away the drumming Orcs with a great blast from his staff, but it was no use. There were too many of them. Together, the Fellowship beat back the first wave. But more were coming. Always, more were coming. An endless wave of Orcs with blades and torches and Trolls. At last, the waves subsided, if only for a moment, and the door was clear. They did not hesitate.

The Fellowship fled the Chamber of Mazarbul and tore into the Twenty-first Hall. But Orcs followed from behind, and even more lay ahead. They were coming down from the columns now, Hannelís noted with horror, hundreds of Orcs scurrying toward them like spiders with glinting eyes. They were surrounded on all sides. _There is no victory here._

 _Doom._ Fire ignited in a distant passageway, scattering hot light though the vast hall. The Orcs turned as one toward the flames--and their quarry was abandoned. They began shrieking and shaking in fear, and before the Fellowship could respond, the Orcs were retreating. And all the while, the flames grew brighter. _Doom, doom, doom._

With a sharp intake of breath, Legolas stiffened beside her. When Hannelís looked at him, she thought she had never seen an Elf look so afraid. “What is it?” cried Boromir, craning his head as though he would be blessed with Elf-sight if he only found the proper angle.

The Elf-prince was trembling. _Doom, doom._ In a flash, he was running the other way, all the others forgotten. “A Balrog!” he wailed, his voice echoing throughout the cave. “It is a Balrog!”

Hannelís spun back around just in time for a final _DOOM_ to issue from the passageway. The mountain shook violently, and the archway shattered, sending debris the size of boulders hurtling to the ground. And a shadowy figure stepped forth and drew to its full, fearsome height, its entire body smoldering and wreathed in flame.

Durin’s Bane was come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [old lady TikTok voice] Here comes the Balrog :)
> 
> HEY, want to hear something cool? This is the 36th chapter, and 36 in Hebrew is "double chai/double life" because letters have a number equivalent and the world for life (chai) = 18, so 36 = double life.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is filled with DEATH and I hope you enjoy.


	37. Son of Gondor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship mourns Gandalf…but more death is yet ahead of them.

Hannelís could not be sure how long they had tarried in Lothlórien. Judging by the moon, she and Gimli agreed it appeared less than ten days had passed since they gazed upon the Mirrormere in Azanulbizar. Yet it seemed both ages since Gandalf’s death, and also no time at all.

They were all haunted by Moria, the whole Fellowship. Although their hearts were lightened during their stay in Caras Galadhon, the grief returned on the Anduin, creeping back into that hollow space among them where the Wizard once stood. It had been a kind of security, having him there to guide them. Hannelís had never been overly fond of Gandalf…but she regretted his passing nonetheless, and all the more with such a weighty task before them.

More than anything, her heart ached for Frodo. Above even Aragorn, it was the Ring-bearer who was hardest hit by the Wizard’s death. She could still remember the way he had screamed when Gandalf fell from the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. It was a horrible, strangled sound. And then the silence that came after…he did not speak for days, though Sam labored endlessly to drag _some_ reaction out of him. Sam’s toil ceased one morning in Lórien as the Hobbits broke their fast and Frodo asked him to pass the butter. At once, Sam burst into tears and embraced him, his relief beyond words.

Despite the grief that clung to them, some levity from Lothlórien had remained. Gimli had found himself rather taken with Lady Galadriel--and for her part, she had shared some amount of fondness for the Dwarf. She even gifted him three golden hairs from her head. Since receiving this present, Gimli had nattered on without ceasing about what exactly he would make with it: a chalice, perhaps, or a diadem. Something fine enough to honor Galadriel’s glory, while not overshadowing the beauty of the gift itself. “Not that it could _ever_ be overshadowed,” he always said, his fingers fumbling with the small pouch around his neck that now bore those precious hairs.

And Galadriel was not the only Elf who had caught Gimli’s attention. In the days since Lórien, Gimli and Legolas had become inseparable. It was like night and day, the change in their relationship. The shift was _so_ sudden and so stark, Hannelís almost thought she’d imagined their previous animosity for each other. But one night as they camped on the riverbank, she caught Boromir and Aragorn giving the pair a queer look.

She joined them by the fire, a ways away from where Gimli and Legolas were happily chatting with their feet in the water. “…bizarre,” Boromir was murmuring, as Aragorn shook his head in wonder. “You know, I always thought Legolas was a little--” He sort of waved his hand in the air before leaning closer to Aragorn and Hannelís. “But Gimli? Do we really think he’s--”

“Oh, they both desire men, if that’s what you mean,” said Hannelís.

“I would not assume as much,” countered Aragorn, sounding a bit defensive on his friend’s behalf, “Legolas is private about such matters.”

Hannelís pulled a face. “Trust me, we got drunk together in Mirkwood a few decades ago. Things were _said._ ” She took a swig from her water-skin. “And Gimli isn’t private at all when it comes to his _conquests._ His word, not mine.”

Aragorn sort of shrugged before turning his focus on Boromir. “And what _was_ that?” he challenged, mimicking the hand-waving gesture Boromir had done a moment before. “I am curious.”

“I--” Even in the dark, they could see Boromir’s ears go bright red. “I only--you know, it’s--please do not think I _judge_ it, everyone has their proclivities--”

Aragorn and Hannelís shared a look, and he winked at her. He was enjoying making the young captain of Gondor so uncomfortable. He frowned innocently at Boromir, playing the fool. “What do you mean, proclivities?”

It was hard not to laugh, but Hannelís managed to keep her face even. Boromir stuttered as he scrambled for the right thing to say, plainly horrified that his soon-to-be king thought him a bigot. “It’s--I swear to you, my lord, I do not begrudge _anyone_ their right to love whomsoever they choose.” He pressed his hand to his chest for emphasis. “ _My_ own mother desired women, you truly will not find a greater supporter than me.”

Aragorn stiffened at the mention of Finduilas, his eyes shooting to Hannelís to gauge her reaction. But Hannelís was too shocked to even _know_ what her reaction was. Before Boromir could note the shift, Aragorn cleared his throat and asked, “You mean to say your mother did not love your father?”

A part of Boromir seemed relieved that the conversation had turned away from his blunder. Still, his smile was sad. “I am sure she _did_ love him, in her way. And he loved her, very much.” Boromir sighed, remembering. “Years ago, I found letters she wrote, hidden away in my father’s study. He had altered them, marked out the woman’s name--but he could not erase my mother’s love for her. I think…he wanted to believe she could have loved him that way. That those words of affection might have been for him. But when I asked him about the letters, he burned them, and forbade me from ever mentioning them again. Sometimes I wonder what wounded him more, her death or her love for another.”

Boromir stared into the fire, lost in thought. Aragorn’s hand found Hannelís’ and squeezed, just once, so brief she might have imagined it. The memory was so clear in her mind, that day she received the final letter from Gondor. _My family has suffered enough,_ Denethor said.

How her heart had broken for Finduilas’ sons then. Hannelís had never met them, yet she loved them, because they were _hers._ Sometimes she had wondered fleetingly, over the years, whether they took after their mother. If they had her raven hair, or her gentleness, or her laughter. Boromir was all Denethor in looks and bearing, yet as the fire crackled beside them, Hannelís felt a rush of affection toward him. Because Finduilas was a _part_ of him, and that was something Denethor could never erase.

Altogether, they were on the Anduin for ten days. On the ninth day, they passed the Argonath and made camp at the base of Amon Hen, a high peak whose watchtower had fallen into ruin. When morning came, Aragorn gathered them all together and declared it time, at last, to decide their next move. After nearly two months of travel, they had finally entered the realm of Gondor. They could continue now to Minas Tirith, or seek a secret way into Mordor through Emyn Muil…or the Fellowship could split, each taking whatever path they chose.

“Well, we will stay together,” grumbled Gimli, taken aback by the idea that breaking the Fellowship was even an _option._ He cast a nervous glance toward Legolas, who was quick to voice his agreement; the Fellowship should stay together. Gimli looked a good deal happier after that.

“We should make for Minas Tirith,” said Boromir, casting his gaze about the group but lingering on Frodo. It was, after all, the Ring-bearer whose opinion mattered the most. “Summon the horse-lords of Rohan, summon _all_ who may answer, and make our stand against Mordor.”

“We cannot defeat Sauron without destroying the Ring,” said Aragorn, to Boromir’s obvious dismay. He looked to Frodo. “What is your decision? We follow where _you_ lead.”

For a long time, Frodo was silent. Hannelís could see how the pressure weighed on him. They all knew there were Orcs patrolling nearby, and Legolas sensed a greater threat tracking them down the Anduin. They could not linger here. But it was not an easy decision for Frodo to make. “May I walk alone?” he asked at length. “To think?”

Aragorn’s hesitation was obvious, but he gave the Hobbit leave to go, requesting he not stray too far. As Frodo left their sight, relief rippled through them. Hannelís felt like a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. It was the Ring, Legolas explained, perceiving the shift in his fellows. Although none of them had laid eyes on it since Rivendell, it had taken its invisible toll all the same. Boromir alone grew more anxious in its absence.

Or perhaps he was anxious for Frodo. When Legolas again voiced his concern about an encroaching evil, Boromir offered to look after Frodo, to ensure his safety. While he was gone, the others began packing up their camp, preparing to leave as soon as Frodo returned with his answer. For a time, all seemed well.

Then Boromir came crashing back through the trees. “He is gone!” he cried, his face twisted in despair.

Aragorn was on his feet at once. “Did you see him?” he asked, advancing toward Boromir. “Did you see which way he--”

“It is my fault,” Boromir groaned, sinking to the ground as he buried his face into his hands. “I only wanted to _help,_ I believed if I spoke plainly, he would understand the need to make for Minas Tirith without delay. And I--I grew angry, and it frightened him, and he vanished from before my eyes. I searched for him, to no avail. He is gone.”

“What did you say to him?” Aragorn’s voice was harsh. Hannelís had never seen him look at anyone with such hate. But before Boromir could answer, Aragorn waved his own question away. “We must find him, _now._ We will divide into three groups, to search every direction.”

Obviously, there was no need to search east; Frodo could not cross the river alone. And so the Fellowship split into three: Aragorn and Sam to the south, Boromir and Merry and Pippin to the north, and Gimli and Hannelís and Legolas to the west.

At first, the woods were filled with the same cry: _Frodo! Frodo!_ Then, other sounds echoed through the forest. Metal clanging on metal. Gimli, Legolas, and Hannelís skidded to a halt and turned north just as a thundering blast resounded down the hillside. “The horn of Gondor,” murmured Legolas. _Boromir. Merry, Pippin._

They tore off toward the still-blaring horn. It was so loud, Hannelís could feel it vibrating in her chest. But they were not running alone--on all sides, Uruks poured down the slopes--waves of them, beyond count. Dread twisted in her gut. _We cannot kill them all._ There were too many of them, and Aragorn and Sam were nowhere to be seen.

 _Perhaps they’re already dead._ Hannelís pushed the thought down, but her heart tightened regardless.

A pack of them caught sight of Legolas and the Dwarves and pealed off toward them, massive blades in hand. Orcrist rang as it came loose from its sheath, and Gimli roared as he lifted his battle-ax high. Legolas picked off three with his arrows before they crashed together, Uruks and Elf and Dwarves.

Hannelís sliced through an Uruk’s sword-arm before opening his throat as he wailed, clutching his bleeding stump. Gimli’s ax cleaved an Orc-helm clean in two, and the Uruk’s skull with it. Orcrist was coated in black Orc-blood by the time they were done, the Uruks dead at their feet. Then the horn boomed again, shaking Hannelís’ very bones.

Once more, they sped toward the sound. Most of the Uruks were gone now, already well ahead of them. That did not bode well for Boromir or the Hobbits. _They are not fighters._ And Boromir could not face so many alone.

The clearing where Boromir made his stand had just come into view when Legolas cried out in warning--and then an Uruk slammed into Hannelís, his armored elbow crashing into her waist at full force. The Uruk was dead before he hit the ground, an arrow buried deep between his eyes. Hannelís rolled him off of her, biting back a sob when the motion cut through her side like a knife. _I’m fine,_ she forced herself to believe. She _had_ to be. The fighting was not yet finished.

Gimli pulled her to her feet, and without a word they flew down to the clearing…but they were not quick enough.

Already, the forest was emptying. In the distance, Uruks disappeared behind decaying ruins and dense trees, vanishing as suddenly as they had appeared. There were only two people left in the clearing. Two Men, one hunched over the other, his body wracked by silent tears. All around them, dozens of Uruks lay dead. It had been a valiant fight, that much was clear. But Merry and Pippin were gone, their bodies not even among the fallen. And Boromir…

Aragorn kissed the young son of Gondor’s forehead before stumbling to his feet, dazed by his grief. And Hannelís saw him in full--Boromir, Captain of the White Tower, the beautiful and longed-for child Finduilas had doted on--bloody and broken. Pierced with many arrows. His face still frozen in a mask of pain and fear.

“We cannot linger,” said Aragorn, his voice catching in his throat. Hannelís wondered if he saw Boromir as she did now. Hannelís had only known of Boromir’s childhood through Finduilas’ letters. But Aragorn had witnessed it. Perhaps he had even held him as a babe, seen him take his first steps. Watched as he breathed his last.

Legolas went to Aragorn and pulled him into a short, tender embrace. For a moment, Aragorn broke against him, the tears threatening to overcome him. But he summoned his strength and murmured something Hannelís could not hear, and together he and the Elf knelt and lifted Boromir’s body into their arms.

Something in Hannelís pulled her forward. She knew they could manage, but she wanted to help. She _needed_ to help. She bent down beside them--and _that_ was her mistake. At once, the pain in her side flared sharply, and she winced.

“ _Azb_ \--Lís?” Gimli was beside them at once. Seeing the way she clutched her side, he gasped, “You are hurt.”

With the utmost gentleness, Legolas and Aragorn set Boromir back on the forest floor. Then Aragorn was there, pressing his hand gingerly against her waist--and that only made her wince _again._ He bent to get a closer look at her leather armor, confirming that no blade had pierced it.

“It is something internal,” he murmured, his brow pulling together. Again, he pressed into her waist, even more carefully this time. She did her best not to let the pain show. Then he shook his head and began unlacing her leather jerkin. “Kneel,” he said, “it will be easier that way.”

So kneel, she did. They were on the ground together now. He could not tell the full nature of her injury through the armor, that much was clear. He was undressing her to _heal_ her, yet there was still something intimate about his hands on her. Even Legolas and Gimli seemed to sense it; once the jerkin was off and he lifted her tunic on one side, they both turned away.

“What happened?” Aragorn prompted, his fingers feeling around the red bruise already forming at her side. When his thumb brushed her side too sharply, Hannelís gasped and braced herself against him. At first she thought she was pushing him away reflexively…but when she opened her eyes, she saw her fingers gripping a fistful of his cloak, anchoring him there.

“One of them hit me, hard,” she said through clenched teeth, as Aragorn whispered an apology for hurting her. “He threw his whole weight into me, I should have--” Another wince. “I should have seen him coming.”

“You have a broken rib,” said Aragorn, “I think just one.” He pulled his hand away, and at least _that_ part of the pain was gone. He let her tunic fall and met her gaze. “Are you having difficulty breathing? Have you coughed up any blood?”

As he asked that second question, his hand moved to her cheek, his thumb brushing against her bottom lip. And although she was in fairly significant pain, Hannelís did--for just a moment--imagine kissing him. The way his eyes drifted to her mouth, his own lips parted in concentration… _He’s only worried about you. He only wants to be sure you didn’t puncture a lung, idiot._ Mahal, she was fucked.

“It hurts to breathe,” she answered, “but I _can._ Is that the same thing?”

Aragorn considered that. “May I?” he asked, motioning toward her torso. Once she nodded, he leaned forward and pressed his ear to her chest. He had to listen from several different positions to get a better sense…and Hannelís found herself grateful the others had given her privacy. She was trying very hard _not_ to think about how close he was, but it was a losing battle. The blush was just creeping up her cheeks when finally, he leaned back and announced, “Your breathing is the same in both lungs. That is good. Hopefully, the break was not severe enough to damage anything else.”

“Good,” she said, watching as Aragorn registered how flushed she was and went a shade red himself. That only made it worse. With effort, Hannelís relaxed her hold on him and pulled her hand back--and then Aragorn grasped that same hand as he stood and helped her to her feet in one quick motion.

“It will need time to heal,” said Aragorn, louder this time, to cue to Legolas and Gimli that they could turn back around. As they did, he continued, “I have something for the pain back at camp.”

“Ah, she’ll be fine,” said Gimli with a relieved grin, “Dwarves are tougher than you think.”

Gimli was right; Dwarves bounced back relatively quickly from things like sprains and broken bones. But _relatively quickly_ was not _immediately,_ and Hannelís was only half-Dwarf. “Let’s hope I take after my father, then,” she said wryly, doing her best not to grimace when they shared a brief laugh that earned her an awful throb in her side.

The laughter died fast as their gaze drifted back to Boromir. With great care, Aragorn and Legolas bore Boromir back to their camp, Hannelís and Gimli following close behind. They set him in one of their boats, his Lórien cloak laid in a way that concealed his wounds. While Aragorn removed Boromir’s gauntlets, Legolas collected wildflowers. He cast the petals across Boromir’s body, weaving some into his hair. Hannelís and Gimli each collected stones from the lakebed to place at either end of the boat, at his head and feet.

The boat was set adrift upon the lake. They watched from the shore as it drifted ever closer to the Falls of Rauros. As the current drew it to the edge, Aragorn began singing. As the boat disappeared into the depths below, Legolas joined his voice with his. _Where now is Boromir the Fair? He tarries and I grieve._ The song continued long, with only the roars of Rauros to answer.

And when all was done, and their path decided, these four who remained conducted the morbid but necessary work of dividing Boromir’s pack between them. It was Gimli who unearthed the worn bit of cloth, remarking how odd it was that Boromir had a kerchief embroidered with Durin’s Crown. And Hannelís took it in her hands, the memory still so clear, even now. The news of Boromir’s birth arriving in Erebor, and the days Hannelís had labored over this cradle-gift, before sending it off on dark wings with all the brightest words of love.

She pressed it to her heart, feeling the grief well in her then. But they could not tarry long. Merry and Pippin needed saving, and they alone could rescue them. So they donned their packs, and set their despair aside, and lifted their gaze toward Rohan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So passes Boromir, sole straight member of the Fellowship and noted lesbian ally.
> 
> Anyway, please let me know what you think! I love to hear your feedback! Hope you enjoy :)


	38. The Four Hunters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re taking the Hobbits to Isengard.

For three days, they ran. It was torture.

Even without a broken rib, it would still torment Hannelís, because Dwarves were not built to run forever. _Is anyone?_ Legolas was able to find rest in the strange manner of Elves, achieving some semblance of sleep without ever skipping a step. Aragorn, too, seemed tireless. For Gimli and Hannelís, they camped twice, though Aragorn was loathe to do so. Every hour they delayed was another hour the Uruks drew closer to Isengard.

And Isengard was clearly where they were going. Legolas figured it out as soon as they cleared the eastern border of Rohan. He could see them hurtling across the plain, the indefatigable Uruks carrying Merry and Pippin on their backs. Even from this great distance, Legolas could make out the Hobbits being jostled about, exhausted and terrified.

Hannelís’ side ached endlessly. Aragorn mixed an herbal tincture that helped with the pain, but only time could stitch her rib back together. Her bruising worsened by the day. Aragorn checked it periodically to ensure there were no signs of internal bleeding or further damage.

Her side was a horrible mottle of blue and purple--and he expected it to stay that way for days. It would take time to fade. _Time_ is what he always assured her. _Fuck time._ She was sick of running, and even sicker of waiting for _time_ to pass. But for Merry and Pippin’s sakes, she did her best to overcome her fatigue and ignore the near-constant ache in her side.

It was just after noon on the third day when Legolas caught sight of an éored cresting over a hill to the north. According to the Elf-prince, there were 105 Rohirrim in all, fair with hair as yellow as the plains around them. They were led by a Man who was noble in bearing, and wore a fine helm emblazoned with the mark of Éorl.

“Is it the king?” asked Aragorn, straining his eyes against the sun.

“He is far younger than Théoden King,” said Legolas. There was something in his tone that suggested Théoden was _still_ one he would consider young--and Aragorn and Hannelís exchanged an amused glance. Yes, according to Legolas, they were _all_ young.

“Then it will be Théodred,” said Aragorn, “or the king’s sister-son Éomer. That is good. Whatever influence Saruman has over this land, they have resisted it, both of him. Boromir was struck by their courage.”

As he said this, a shadow passed over his features, and his hand dropped to his side. His gaze fell to his gauntlets--to _Boromir’s_ gauntlets, fashioned with the White Tree of Gondor. Hannelís’ heart went out to him, and she almost followed it. She wanted to go to him, to _comfort_ him--but then Legolas was saying, “They ride for us with speed. They are not slowing.”

Indeed, the éored was advancing fast. They were still too far for the Four Hunters to know whether they had been spotted, but Aragorn decided it best to hide regardless. “Come,” he said, touching Hannelís’ arm lightly as he slipped into the outcropping of rocks beside them. The others swiftly followed.

It was not long before the Rohirrim thundered past them in force, hundreds of hooves kicking up so much dust, it sent them all into coughing fits. No rider looked their way. But the moment the final row passed, Aragorn stepped back into the open and said in a booming voice, “Riders of Rohan, what news from the Mark?”

The Man at the éored’s head raised his spear toward the left, and the Rohirrim moved as one, fluidly turning east across the plain. They circled back around to the Four Hunters, who stood in a loose group, no weapons raised. However, as the Men rode hard upon them, Gimli moved to lift his ax--but Legolas stayed his hand. The Elf actually _touched_ the handle of Gimli’s battle-ax, something Thorin Stonehelm had once earned a punch to the face for doing. But the Dwarf only met his eyes and nodded, accepting Legolas’ judgment.

As the riders drew perilously close, their mounts skidding to a sudden stop mere feet away, Aragorn pulled Hannelís closer. Legolas and Gimli, too, closed ranks, so that they each faced a different direction, ready for whatever came next. The tight circle parted in front of Aragorn, and the lead rider rode forward in his gilded helm, regarding them darkly.

Hannelís watched his gaze move from Legolas to Gimli. The reason for his confusion was obvious; it could not be often that Elves and Dwarves passed through Rohan’s borders. Then his gaze turned on Aragorn and her, his eyes narrowing in some sort of distrust or other displeasure.

“Are you hurt, my lady?” It was a long, terribly silent moment before Hannelís realized he was addressing _her._ She frowned at Aragorn in a bemused way--but that was clearly the wrong response. “Will they not let you speak for yourself?” the leader asked, his eyes flashing at Aragorn and the others. His face softened when he looked down at her again. “From where did they take you?”

“ _Take_ me?” repeated Hannelís, still far too perplexed for her liking…but irritation was close behind. The young rider’s meaning was becoming clearer every second. “They did not take me from anywhere,” she said at last, with a bit more heat than was wise. “They are my _friends,_ and I rather resent your implication that I cannot defend myself.”

Behind her, Gimli _harrumphed_ in agreement, plainly offended by such regressive tendencies. Most Dwarves knew Mannish culture was a measure less…advanced in terms of gender equality. Indeed, the Dwarves of Erebor often encountered such evidence in their dealings with Dale. But to witness it directed at his friend and former queen…Hannelís doubted he would mind if this encounter came to blows.

For a fraction of a second, that emboldened Hannelís, and she _almost_ said more--but then Aragorn murmured her name in warning, and she thought better of it. But the rider did not seem overly vexed by her words. Indeed, he smirked and said, “I do not doubt your strength, my lady. I learned from my sister long ago not to underestimate shieldmaidens of Rohan.”

His words were fine, but his voice betrayed him. _He is condescending to me._ Hannelís felt her face flush in anger. “That is well, my lord,” she said, “but I am not _of_ Rohan.” At least, not in the way he meant. She forced herself to smile, though she had never hidden her emotions convincingly, and she imagined her smile looked more like bared teeth than anything approaching friendliness.

That seemed to sober the young horse-lord a touch, and he straightened in his saddle, addressing the four of them as one: “What business do you have with the Riddermark? Speak quickly!” His voice boomed with authority. The family resemblance with Théoden had never been more apparent. Perhaps Aragorn was right--perhaps this _was_ his son.

Gimli still resented his sexism, and he was rather unready to play nice. “Give me your name, horse-master,” he growled, “and I shall give you mine.”

His sass was unwise, however much Hannelís enjoyed it. The horse-lord swung off his mount and advanced toward Gimli, clearing the distance between him in two strides of his very long legs. _Why are they all so tall?_ Hannelís had forgotten how it wounded her pride, being surrounded by the tall Men in Rohan.

The young lord stood so that he was looking almost directly down upon Gimli. _His arrogance is astounding._ “I would cut off your head, Dwarf,” he said, his own teeth bared now, “if you stood but a little higher from the ground.”

In a flash, her pride was forgotten, leaving wrath in its wake. Hannelís stepped toward him swiftly then, her hand going to Orcrist at her side--but Aragorn held her in place. He could not stop Legolas in time. Before any of them realized what he was doing, the Elf-prince had a loaded arrow pointed directly at the horse-lord’s face. He had never looked so murderous. His words were hot: “You would die before your stroke fell.”

At once, all of the Rohirrim’s spears were facing him. The horse-lord was so outraged, Hannelís truly thought he would attempt to kill Legolas right then and there. _Attempt,_ she knew, because there was no way this sexist ass was any match for Legolas. Still…her gaze drifted to the hundreds of spears surrounding them, and she thought regretfully, _I did not expect us to die at the Rohirrim’s hand._

But Aragorn stepped between Legolas and the reddening horse-lord, gently pushing the Elf’s nocked bow toward the ground. He faced the young lord and gestured to himself, saying, “I am Aragorn son of Arathorn.” He motioned to each of them in turn: “This is Legolas of the Woodland Realm, and Hannelís and Gimli of Erebor. We are friends of Rohan, and of Théoden, your king.”

The change in the horse-lord was instant. He repeated Aragorn’s name to himself, looking on him with wonder. Then he removed his helm and dipped his head in greeting. “It is an honor, my lord,” he said fervently. “I am Éomer son of Éomund, and I am the Third Marshal of the Riddermark.”

So he was Théoden’s nephew. With his helm gone, Hannelís could see the resemblance clearly. He had the same flowing mane of golden hair, expertly braided in a way that would put many Dwarves to shame. He bore a full beard that was cropped short, a style that the riders around him shared. Unlike Théoden and Thengel before him, his eyes were brown, a dark, rich color like her own. Like Thorin had described her mother’s.

 _He is my kin._ A distant cousin, to be sure; Hannelís recalled Théoden was her fourth cousin, the same degree of relation between herself and Gimli. That would make Éomer her fourth cousin once removed. Distant, but kin all the same. Seeing him fully now, Hannelís could understand why he had mistaken her for a Woman of Rohan. After so long, she had forgotten how much she _looked_ Rohirric. Alas… _kin or not, he’s still infuriating._

“These are strange times indeed,” Éomer was saying, half to himself, “with such long-lost heirs springing to life out of the grass. Tell me, my lord, what brings you here?”

It seemed Aragorn had decided to trust Éomer, based on what he knew of him from Boromir. “We set out from Rivendell more than two months ago,” he answered, motioning to his fellows. “With us were six others, including Boromir of Minas Tirith. Our company had its own mission, of which I will not speak--but I meant to go with him to Gondor, to fight alongside our people against Mordor. Gandalf the Wizard was our leader.”

Eagerness alighted in the horse-lord’s eyes. “You know Boromir?” He glanced over their group, as though the son of Gondor might appear out of thin air if he looked a second time. “He is well-loved in this land, and a dear friend of my cousin, though we had not seen him much of late, with war brewing in his homeland. We lent him a horse to aid him on his journey to Rivendell…but it came back riderless.”

As Éomer spoke of his cousin, something shifted in his eyes: a quiet sorrow, though he spoke nothing of it. Perhaps Aragorn did not see--or misread it, thinking of the change in reference to Boromir. His own voice was sad as he answered, “My lord…Boromir is not with us because he fell in battle, barely three days past. Not long before then, we lost Gandalf, too, at the hands of great peril.”

Dismay rippled through the horse-men gathered around them, but none was more regretful than Éomer. “I am grieved to hear it. Gandalf Greyhame was long trusted in the king’s court--though less in recent days. But Boromir…” He shook his head darkly. “I fear for Gondor’s survival in his absence.” A mournful silence passed before he asked, “What of the others, these last four you have yet to mention?”

“The battle separated us. Two have journeyed on together, beyond our reach,” said Aragorn, “but two were taken captive by the same Uruks who slew Boromir. We have pursued them ever since, tracking them westward toward Isengard.”

Éomer shut his eyes, bracing himself before looking at them with remorse. “The Uruks are destroyed. My éored hunted them down as soon as word came that they had passed our borders. We slaughtered them in the night.”

It was Gimli who recovered from the shock first. “But…but there were two Hobbits. Did you see two Hobbits with them?”

Éomer frowned in confusion. Aragorn was quick to explain: “They would be small, only children to your eyes.”

If it was possible, Éomer looked even more regretful, stricken by the notion of harming children. “We left none alive,” he said at last. “We piled the bodies and burned them.” His gaze shifted to the northwest, and Hannelís finally noticed the smoke trailing behind a hill in the distance.

“Dead…” murmured Gimli, unbelieving. Legolas’ grief was beyond words, and already Aragorn’s eyes were misty.

Hannelís could not believe the Fellowship had broken so suddenly and so _violently._ Frodo and Sam were Mahal only knew where, facing the horror of Mordor alone. Boromir was dead, Gandalf was fallen…and now Merry and Pippin. It was an evil fate, dying so far from home, and surrounded by so much terror.

Éomer whistled and beckoned to a group of his riders. “Hasufel, Arod, Edric!” The horse-men hesitated, but parted to let three riderless horses pass through their midst. Éomer gathered their reins with care and faced the Four Hunters once more. “May these horses bear you to better fortune than their former masters.”

“My lord!” objected the horse-man nearest to him. “The _families_ of those masters await them.”

With a wave of his hand, Éomer silenced his protest. “I place my trust in you,” he said, handing the reins to Aragorn, Legolas, and Hannelís in turn. His gaze returned to Aragorn as he continued, “After you have searched for your friends, return these horses to Edoras. That way, I will know my trust was not misplaced, and I will vouch for you to the king.”

Aragorn dipped his head. “Your trust is well-placed, my lord. We will do as you ask.”

“Good. And now, my éored is anxious to return to Edoras. We have left the city unguarded, and it is well past time we turn toward home.” Éomer mounted his horse and cut toward the south. “Look for your friends,” he said as the riders around him retreated as they prepared to set off, “but do not trust to hope. It has forsaken these lands.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, we’re having a fun time here combining movie stuff and book stuff. Like, in the book, Éomer doesn’t get exiled until after returning to Edoras post-meeting the Three Hunters--and instead of EXILED, he actually just get imprisoned in Edoras’ jail. So we get to have fun with Éomer at Edoras and Helm’s Deep pre-battle, isn’t that nice? :)
> 
> Anyway, Éowyn shows up next chapter and I’m excited to (1) have another female character around and (2) just get to enjoy how wonderful and beautiful and just fun the whole line of Éorl is. Someone said to me recently that Théoden looks like he smells like old cheese, and like, maybe pre-exorcism Théoden, but Bernard Hill redeeming-himself Théoden has a certain charm, if you ask me. And Éomer and Éowyn are just [chef’s kiss] like, thank you, Tolkien and also Peter Jackson for casting Karl Urban and Miranda Otto, I am a BIG fan.
> 
> Hannelís is getting back to her Rohirric roots and we love that for her. Also, once they get to Edoras, she and Aragorn WILL have a chance to process their returning attraction for each other in PRIVATE, because hoo boy they’ve just been on the road for months surrounded by 8 other people constantly, that’s no recipe for romance. So we also love privacy for her.
> 
> Please let me know what you think! Seeing your kudos and bookmarks and reading your comments are so motivating to keep this story going! We’re finally in the home stretch here, I’m thinking something ~8 chapters left and then we’re done. I can’t believe how much the story’s grown, it was initially outlined to be 33 chapters and now 😳 well, it’s longer than that.


	39. Of Death and Revival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf is back, Théoden wakes up, and Hannelís and Aragorn finally have a moment alone.

Gandalf the White gazed out on the moonlit plains of Rohan, his eyes fixed on the fiery shadow of Mordor that lit the far-east horizon. Aragorn stood beside him, murmuring too low for her to hear. Legolas and Gimli slept by the dying fire, their hands outstretched toward each other. And all the while, Hannelís glowered. Because the Wizard was _alive._

Dead was dead. Death could never be turned _back_ to life, it was contrary to everything she’d ever known. Yet somehow, it was true. Death _could_ become life…if the Valar willed it. She hated the Valar for that. _It’s not fair._

Who were the Valar to decide who deserved a second chance? “…the Valar,” Legolas had answered obviously, the first time Hannelís had hissed the question under her breath as they followed Gandalf out of Fangorn. _Well._ She supposed that was the right answer. _It still doesn’t make it fair._

Why did Boromir not deserve another chance? Why did he and his brother seemingly _deserve_ to grow up without their mother? And why had Hannelís lost _so_ much if the Valar could simply wave their hand, and the dead would step out of a burst of white light in a rotten forest as though they had never died in the first place?

It felt cruel. Now, the long years without Thorin and Fíli and Kíli--without _everyone_ she had lost--felt…meaningless. Because if the Valar had only made a different decision, then those years would never have happened. Her life would have been filled with _other_ years, better years…kinder years. She would not have had to grow up so fast. And she would not have spent so much of her life wishing she were with her kin in those cold tombs of stone.

Hannelís said nothing of this to the Wizard. What _would_ she say? _I wish my father was alive in your place._ It was a heartless thing to think, let alone put into words--no matter how true it was. And so Hannelís did her best to keep her resentment to herself, even if her sour mood was obvious to anyone who paid attention.

From Fangorn, they made for Edoras. The yellow plains of Rohan flew beneath their feet until that vast, rocky hill rose before them, the Golden Hall of Meduseld sparkling in the sun. It was everything Hannelís had remembered, the thatched roofs and snow-capped mountains and those ancient barrows of white-petalled kings. On the outside, Rohan was just as wild and warm as ever. Yet darkness festered within.

They brought their mounts to the royal stables, and that was when the trouble began. Aragorn shared Éomer’s wish that the horses be returned safely to Edoras, as proof of their honor and his good trust. But at the mention of Éomer’s name, the guard’s face stiffened. “Lord Éomer has been imprisoned for treason, by order of the king.”

 _By order of the king_ was a strange specification--for whom would the order come from, if not the king? They all shared a look at that. “Nonsense,” said the Wizard, “Lord Éomer is Théoden King’s sister-son.”

The guard was displeased. “I know not who you are to question the king’s decision,” he replied while Gandalf puffed angrily, “but you would be wise to keep your disrespect to yourself.”

“Disrespect!” cried Gandalf, plainly scandalized by such hostility. No, Hannelís mused, she supposed the Wizard was used to being trusted and admired wherever he went, invited or not. Gandalf stamped his staff into the dirt, and it reminded Hannelís of a child stamping his feet when he doesn’t get his way. “Take us to the king at once.”

“As it so happens,” answered the guard, waving to his fellows from where they stood at the foot of Meduseld, “you are already late in presenting yourselves to the court. The Lord of the Mark does not look kindly on strangers, and in such dangerous times, all foreigners are required to submit to the king’s inspection upon arrival in Edoras.” He looked on Aragorn with disdain as he added, “Or did Lord Éomer neglect to tell you that?”

Gandalf was clearly furious--but fortunately, the Wizard held his tongue and allowed the guards to escort them into the Golden Hall. Before entering, they were made to hand over their weapons. Hannelís regretted being parted from Orcrist…but seeing Gandalf relinquish Glamdring, she swallowed her objections and obeyed. Gandalf did, however, keep his staff.

Within, Meduseld was dim. Curtains shut out the sun, so that the sole light came from the hearth blazing in the center of the hall. Instead of the warm, boisterous, gleaming hall Hannelís remembered, she was met with a grim and persistent gloom. All around, Men lingered in the shadows, watching these strange new travelers make their way toward the throne. And the _throne…_

Théoden King sat stooped upon it, bent and wrinkled with age. His once-golden hair was brittle and white, and he seemed to see them through a veil, his eyes clouded and weakening. He was hunched over to the right, ever ready to hear his faithful servant who sat there on a stool. The Man was pale with eyes like ice, and something about the way he studied them made Hannelís uneasy. Like they were insects he had a mind to crush beneath his heel.

Théoden was so unlike the young, proud horse-lord she had known, it made Hannelís want to weep. As he watched them approach, she thought she saw a flicker of recognition behind those veiled eyes, but she could not be sure. He knew Gandalf, and Aragorn, and her. But he seemed to her a shell, reduced to a ghost clinging to life. Was it time that had degraded him so? _No._ Aragorn had spoken of Saruman’s influence over Rohan. _Surely, that must play some part._

His servant was whispering in his ear as Gandalf made his greeting: “The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden King.” It was not a particularly encouraging thing to say, but the Wizard could not seem to help himself.

More whispers in his ear. Théoden shifted on his throne and lifted his gaze toward his guests. “Why…should I welcome you,” he asked, each word a strain on him, “Gandalf…Stormcrow?”

“A just question, your Grace,” said his servant--and then he was standing and advancing on them, his black robes billowing out behind him. “Late is the hour in which this conjuror chooses to appear. _Láthspell_ I name you: ill news. And ill news is an ill guest, so they say.”

The Wizard rewarded him with a twisted grin. “You are thought wise, Wormtongue, but you would be wiser to choose silence. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm.”

With that, Gandalf raised his staff, and Wormtongue’s face paled even further as his eyes went wide. “I told you,” he cried to the guards, “I _told_ you to take the Wizard’s staff.”

Everything happened very quickly then. With a great boom and a flash of white like lightning, Wormtongue was struck to the floor. When he tried to scramble back to his feet, Gimli hastened to hold him there, pressing his full weight into Wormtongue’s chest. “I would stay still if I were you,” the Dwarf growled.

Gandalf marched toward Théoden resolutely, his voice thundering: “Théoden son of Thengel, hearken to me!”

All around, guards and other Men rushed as one to stop the Wizard--but Aragorn and Legolas were there, blocking their path. At first, none approached Hannelís, as though they were hesitant to lay hands on her. Yet when she helped Aragorn disarm a pair of guards, that hesitation rather fell apart, and a Man lunged her way. She dodged to the side and grabbed his arm, yanking it forward to ruin his balance. When he stumbled, she kicked his legs out from under him, and he crashed to the ground hard. It made her side twinge horribly, but she fought past the pain.

All the while, Gandalf’s petition continued. Once more, he raised his staff, and the curtain on the window nearest to Théoden fell away, a beam of light shining upon the old king. “Not all is dark,” the Wizard said. “Take courage, your Grace--for better help, you will not find. Trust me as you once did, and hear the counsel I have to give. Too long have you sat in the shadows and listened to twisted tales and crooked promptings. No more!”

Slowly, the Lord of the Mark began to stir at Gandalf’s words. “Rise,” he said, his voice even firmer now, “come out and look upon your land! Breathe the free air again, my friend.”

Théoden’s hands gripped the arms of his throne, and with great effort he pulled himself to his feet. As he stood, the other curtains fell away, and light grew within the hall, warm and bright. The Men who remained fighting stilled in place and turned to look at their king. And from behind Hannelís, a young lady sprang forth and ran to Théoden’s side, taking his arm in hers to hold him steady.

The king gazed at her with clear eyes. “Éowyn,” he murmured, wiping a tear from her cheek, “sister-daughter.”

 _Éowyn._ She was tall and beautiful, yet a cold sadness loomed about her. Her golden hair fell in waves down her back, loose and unbraided, and she wore a gown of pure white that shone in the rising light. The resemblance to her brother Éomer was striking, though even from a distance Hannelís could see her eyes were blue, like Théoden’s. And when she looked upon her uncle and smiled, Hannelís could not help but smile, too.

Together, Éowyn and Gandalf helped Théoden out of Meduseld, the rest of hall following close behind. Even Wormtongue slunk after them, his gray eyes darting back and forth like a trapped animal seeking escape. In the full light of day, Théoden drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, allowing the mountain-fresh air to wash over him. Already, he seemed a different Man than the dying ember of a king they had met.

Théoden King opened his eyes and took in the whole of Edoras and the plains beyond, the rivers and the rolling hills winding into the horizon. “It is not so dark here,” he whispered, half to himself.

“No,” said Gandalf with a smile, “nor does age lie so heavily on your shoulders as some would have you think.”

The king looked at him, and then his gaze drifted down to the cane still clutched in his fist. With boldness, he let the cane clatter to the stony ground and squared his shoulders, raising himself to his full, impressive height. Beside him, Éowyn openly wept, her joy beyond words.

“Dark have been my dreams of late,” he murmured, “but I feel as one new-awakened.” But he lifted his cane-hand and flexed it with a wince, as though some weakness yet lingered.

“Your fingers would remember their old strength better,” said the Wizard, “if they grasped a sword.”

Before the king could respond, one of his guards bounded up the steps, with Éomer close behind. Unlike their first meeting, Éomer was no longer garbed in armor. He had been stripped to his tunic, and even his braids were disheveled.

Although he was fresh from prison, already he held his sword. He stared at his uncle in wonder. “My dear lord,” he cried in delight, “take this.” He fell to his knees and raised his sword high, offering the hilt to the Lord of the Mark. “It has always been at your service.”

“What is this, Háma?” said Théoden to the guard, his voice suddenly stern.

Háma dipped his head as Éomer’s smile faltered. “Forgive me, your Grace. To witness such change in you, I thought…”

“You thought my judgment changed, as well?” asked the king harshly. “Did Éomer not rebel against my commands and threaten death to Gríma in my hall?”

Háma murmured a fervent _no, your Grace_ as Gandalf answered, “A person may love you and yet not love Wormtongue and his counsel.”

Théoden considered that. Sensing an opportunity, Gríma crept closer. “Your judgment _is_ sound, your Grace, as is your sentence. Long has your nephew coveted what was his cousin’s by right of birth. Do not forget his boldness in Théodred’s absence, how eagerly he moved to seize power out from under you.”

The king’s face twisted in pain, and Éowyn’s tears flowed anew. _Théodred is dead._ His _absence_ could mean nothing else, with such open displays of grief. Éomer seethed at Gríma, but he paid the horse-lord no mind. His focus was fixed on Théoden. “You are weary, your Grace,” he continued, reaching slowly for the king’s hand, “these strangers refuse to see. They would use you for their plots, draining Rohan of its strength until we are left defenseless. Come, rest, and let me deal with them.”

Théoden ripped his hand out of Gríma’s reach. “And did you not rob Rohan of its strength,” he asked, “when you called for the imprisonment of a Marshal of the Riddermark?” He looked on Wormtongue with disgust. “No, I think it is _you_ who would have us defenseless. I see that now.”

The Lord of the Mark accepted Éomer’s outstretched sword and lifted it high, and it seemed a fire overtook the old king, burning away the final vestiges of Wormtongue’s dark influence and leaving a greater, stronger lord in its wake. “Rise, sister-son!” he cried to Éomer in a deep, booming voice. “Rise, and take back your sword.”

And Éomer did rise, and his uncle placed his sword in his waiting hands, and his nephew’s eyes shone with tears. Éowyn could not hide the rush of joy at her brother’s freedom and her uncle’s returning; she barreled into Éomer and held him tight in her arms, and they laughed together. Théoden smiled at them…but it was short-lived. When his face darkened this time, Hannelís knew it was no shadow or foul work of Gríma’s: it was Théodred. She had known more than enough loss to recognize that.

Gandalf wasted no time in leading the king aside, saying there was much to be said, and even more work to be done. As they stepped away, the Wizard called back to them over his shoulder: “Rest well tonight, my friends. We shall not stay in Edoras long.”

Eager to help these strangers who had saved her uncle, Éowyn hastened to show them to their rooms. There were not enough rooms for everyone, she explained with an apology; Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli would share one chamber, and Hannelís would have the other. Seeing Legolas and Gimli’s obvious disappointment that they would not be alone, Hannelís said she would not mind sharing--but Éowyn waved her offer away, saying she would not dream of putting her, a _lady,_ in such a position.

Still, Aragorn caught Hannelís’ meaning. Once Éowyn had left, he told Legolas and Gimli to go on ahead and settle in. He had missed Edoras, he said, and desired to walk around the city. But when the grateful pair disappeared, Aragorn lingered there with Hannelís. At first, she thought he would ask her to join him…but instead, he stepped closer, his gaze lowering as his hand brushed her side. “How is the pain?”

 _Stupid,_ Hannelís chastised herself. When he moved toward her, she half-expected him to kiss her. But he only wanted to see how her rib was. “Fine,” she said, but that was plainly the wrong answer. He almost looked disappointed, as though she had rejected some invitation. _Oh._ “At least, _mostly_ fine,” she continued, “but could you check? To see if it’s healing properly?” That, he would gladly do.

In her room, Hannelís shrugged off her leather jerkin and settled into the armchair by the fire. Aragorn knelt beside her and lifted her tunic, his hands hovering over the blue and purple blotches. There was even a hint of green beginning to appear now. That seemed good to her; the bruises, at least, were healing normally.

“It’s on its way,” said Aragorn, and then he pressed his palm more firmly against her. She should have been used to it by now, but she gasped all the same, the pressure making her rib burn terribly. “Still broken,” he judged--and then, too soon, his touch receded.

He stayed kneeling there, his hands on the armrest, taking in the room. The fire burning, the feather bed with a red canopy, the horse-covered tapestry hanging on the wall. It was all very Rohirric. “It almost hasn’t changed,” murmured Aragorn. “Rohan. Meduseld. All of it.”

“It feels the same, _and_ different,” she said. “Time has not been kind to the king.”

“Is time kind to anyone?” came his response, delivered in a way that was meant to be humorous. But she heard the sadness lurking behind his words. It could not have been easy for him, seeing Théoden so bent and broken when they arrived. Even now, with his shadow passed, Théoden was _still_ so changed. He had lived a whole life without them, without _Aragorn._ Hannelís could see how that pained him.

“Maybe for the Elves,” she offered--and immediately, she regretted that. He did not need to be reminded of Arwen now.

“No, not even for them,” he said with sorrow. “The long years weigh on them, until they grow weary of the world…until the time comes for them to leave it.”

They sat there without speaking for a hard moment, the crackling fire punctuating their silence. Hannelís felt guilty for making Aragorn think of Arwen…but now that he was thinking of her, anyway, there was something she wanted to ask. “What will you do without her?”

At first, he said nothing. But as the silence stretched further, she felt the heaviness between them shift. No longer was it mournful and pained, but weighty with something akin to anticipation. Hunger mixed with uncertainty. A heartsick longing. His eyes found hers. “I do not know,” he murmured…but she thought he _did_ know.

The flames reflected in his gaze, flickering. They matched the heat growing in her belly. Mahal, how she wanted him. His lips parted, and she whispered his name, just once, without fully realizing she was saying it: “Aragorn--”

He pushed off from the floor and kissed her, his hand weaving through her hair. She sighed into the embrace, relief breaking against her like a wave. She had missed him for so long, missed _this_ \--and that hunger had only grown during their time together these past months. But there had been no opportunity. They had never been alone. And he loved Arwen, anyway, regardless of whether she sailed or not. Hannelís had resigned herself to a lifetime of missing him.

But heat burned the relief away, and she returned the kiss with fire. She leaned into him, tracing the line of his jaw and clutching the nape of his neck so they would not be parted. They moved as one, until he was the one sitting in the chair and she was over him. He pulled her hips down against his, and she could not hold back the moan when she felt him pressed against her. They rocked back and forth, her breath catching in her throat as her head swam with the smell of him, the taste and _feel_ of him--until the pleasure crashed over her and she cried out.

As she came down from her peak, she stilled against him, and he groaned almost regretfully. Smiling, she gave him one last deep kiss before pushing away and falling to her knees in front of the chair. When she began unlacing him, Aragorn threw back his head and moaned, “Hannelís…”

A knock came at the door, and Hannelís shot to her feet, wincing when the sudden movement pulled at her side. Aragorn was refastening his trousers, the moment already forgotten. “Hannelís?” a voice called from the hallway. “Are you all right?”

It was Legolas. She opened the door, and there he was, with Gimli beside him. Their faces were oddly flushed, and although it might have been a trick of the light, Hannelís saw a bruise-like shadow on the Elf’s neck, just above his collar.

She glanced at Gimli, who seemed to know precisely what she had seen. He had always enjoyed marking his lovers as his own. The Dwarf cleared his throat. “We heard a sound. _This_ one,” he grumbled with a nod at Legolas, “wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt.”

Hannelís’ face went hot, and she winced, seeing the Elf’s concern give way to curiosity. _Gimli_ had never looked particularly concerned--in fact, if anything, he looked bothered to be standing here, as though he would rather be elsewhere with Legolas--and she was sure that was true.

Legolas, meanwhile, peered over her shoulder. “Oh,” he exclaimed, finally seeing Aragorn, who had been attempting to sink below the top of the armchair and evade notice. “I did not realize…” Legolas’ voice faltered, and he looked between them awkwardly, “…you were not alone.”

Now it was _his_ turn to go red. Gimli elbowed the Elf, chuckling lewdly, “I _told_ you she did not sound pained.” Aragorn gave a sort of a miserable groan, which only made Gimli laugh harder. Legolas shushed him and herded him down the hallway, and as they rounded a corner, Gimli uttered a particularly obscene joke that earned him a squealing _Gimli!_ from the flustered Elf-prince.

“We could have a wedding on our hands before long.” Hannelís turned to find Aragorn standing beside the armchair. He gestured over her shoulder, through the still-open door. “I have known Legolas for most of my life. He is falling fast, and _hard._ I’d bet on a proposal within the week.”

Hannelís pulled the door shut, rolling her eyes with a smile. “ _I’ve_ known him for most of my life, too. You want to know what he called me in Mirkwood, when his father held us captive? _It._ Like I was _so_ much lesser than him, I was a _thing,_ an animal.” Yet to his credit, Legolas had come around to the idea of Dwarves, thanks to Gimli. “To be fair, I hated Elves back then, too.” She still was not wild about them.

Aragorn’s grin was warm. He stepped closer and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. When he leaned down, she thought he was going to kiss her--but his lips only brushed her cheek once. It was plainly a farewell. She tried not to let her disappointment show _too_ much. “You’re not staying?”

He sighed. “I am no longer a simple ranger. Rohan is a vassal of Gondor; sharing a bed with a virtuous maiden would paint me in an unfavorable light in the eyes of those who will one day serve me.”

It was a fair excuse, though Hannelís suspected there was more to it than that. His heartache for Arwen, perhaps. But she pretended to believe him. “Little do they know,” she jested, “I am neither of those things.” That earned her a laugh.

And so, Aragorn bid her sweet dreams and disappeared into the dark of Meduseld.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I thought, “How would Hannelís respond to Gandalf’s return?” I immediately knew she would be PISSED. Like, she’s spent the past almost-80 years grieving all these people she’s lost and trying to understand why she survived and Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli didn’t…only to find out that actually, the Valar can bring back anyone they want! Sure, Gandalf is a Maia, so it’s a bit different than a mortal Dwarf-king…but is it REALLY that different? I mean, the Valar re-embodied Glorfindel after he died, so 🤷🏻
> 
> YES, Hannelís WILL be crushing on Éowyn, because who wouldn’t? (I myself am a proud “Aragorn and Éowyn” bisexual.) Tragically, Éowyn is straight, but at least Hannelís finally has another woman to talk to and they can…bond over their attraction to Aragorn?
> 
> Yes, Gimli gave Legolas a hickey.
> 
> Anyway, I hope y’all enjoyed! As always, please let me know your thoughts!


	40. Lady of Rohan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The people of Edoras flee to Helm’s Deep.

“Hannelís,” called Théoden King. “Ride with me.”

Hannelís looked up and found the king astride his horse at the head of the column, Éomer and Éowyn riding at his side. The people of Edoras made for Helm’s Deep, hurrying over hills and across raging rivers as the threat of Isengard marched ever closer. Théoden’s criers had announced the evacuation of the city in the early hours of the morning, while the king and his household rushed to lay Théodred to rest.

Théoden regretted not having time for a proper funeral, with his subjects present, and with song and ritual fit for a crown prince of Rohan. Yet time they did not have, and so they gathered together in those mounds where ancient kings slept, and Hannelís watched as all present strew white flowers upon Théodred’s freshly-covered tomb.

 _Simbelmynë._ That was its name. Hannelís held one in her hand and twirled it until the petals came loose on their own and drifted down to the grief-ridden earth. Before they left, she pressed a stone into the grass beside his grave. And when the king knelt in the mounds and bowed his head low and let the sobs wrack his body, Hannelís prayed, “Hamakom y’nachaim b’toch sh’or avaylay am Durin.” _May the Smith comfort you along with the mourners of Durin’s Folk._

He did not hear the words, nor would he have understood them if he did. But it still mattered to Hannelís to say them. She could remember well the first time Balin had said them to _her,_ after Thorin and her cousins were laid to rest. It was not a blessing that tried to take _away_ one’s grief. Instead, it reminded one that one was not _alone_ in their grief. In that way, it reminded her of saying kaddish for her father. She could only say it with others present--because no one was meant to hold their grief alone. Alone, it could destroy you. Together, one found a way to survive it.

Saying a quick farewell to Aragorn, Hannelís spurred her horse forward until she was in line with Théoden and his family, just to the left of Éowyn. “To what do I owe this honor, your Grace?”

The Lord of the Mark nodded toward Éomer on his right. “I wanted to make an introduction. We are, after all, kin.” Both Éomer and Éowyn looked at Hannelís with some curiosity then.

Éomer spoke first. “I thought you were not _from_ Rohan, my lady.”

 _Yes, and no._ “That is mostly true, my lord,” she answered, waiting for a signal from Théoden to continue. She was not sure how much _he_ wanted to say, and how much he was content letting her explain. He nodded, so she said, “I was born here, in the Westfold, long ago. My mother was Hathilde daughter of Hána, a distant cousin of your grandfather.”

Clearly, the king’s niece and nephew recognized the name. “But Hathilde was born in…” Éowyn tried to make sense of the count. “No, that cannot be right,” she said at last, twisting in her saddle to better see Hannelís. “Hathilde died more than a century ago. She cannot be your mother.”

Despite the sadness that lingered in his heart, a mischievous smile alighted on Théoden’s face. He plainly enjoyed the mental torment he was putting his kin through now, harmless as it was. Hannelís had to laugh. “You are correct, my lady, but she _is_ my mother. I was born 108 years ago. She died when I was only a small child.”

Éowyn did not know what to make of that. Éomer, however, frowned and glanced between Hannelís and his uncle. “You are lying,” he said, fixing the king with an accusing glare. “We are no longer children, uncle, surely you know you cannot fool us like this anymore.”

Again, Hannelís laughed. “It is more complicated than that, my lord.” Éomer turned back to her, eyes narrowed. “My father was a Dwarf. _That_ is why I look so young.” Indeed, she supposed she appeared to be of an age with them, Éomer and Éowyn both. She could understand why they struggled to believe her.

“And not just any Dwarf,” said Théoden, before falling into a thoughtful silence. His niece and nephew waited for him to continue, casting inquisitive glances in her direction when the king did not speak. At last, Théoden turned to Hannelís and said, rather seriously, “When word came of Dáin’s ascension to the throne, I thought you had died. I regretted that…and I am glad to be proven wrong.”

 _Dáin’s ascension._ For months, Hannelís had assumed Dáin would become King under the Mountain; the only other possibility was Dís accepting the throne, and that would never happen. But this was her first confirmation of it. “I am glad you’re wrong, too,” she said, and he laughed--and she realized she was telling the truth. Not wanting to die was easier now that she felt like she had a real _choice_ in how she would live. “When did the news come?”

“A month ago, at most,” he answered, his brow pulling down as he tried to remember. “The memory of Gríma reading aloud the announcement is dim…but there, nonetheless.”

They fell into a brief silence as the king’s face darkened, recalling the time he had lost to Wormtongue and Saruman’s influence. Yesterday, after all was said and done, Théoden had given Gríma a choice: fight for his people at Helm’s Deep and regain his honor…or take whatever horse would have him and flee these lands. Gríma had ridden for Isengard with all haste.

Éomer was the first to break the silence: “I did not know you were a queen, my lady.”

“I am not,” said Hannelís, “not anymore. I am not a lady, either.”

“Nonsense,” said Théoden. “Your mother was a lady of Rohan. You are owed the same honor, by right of birth.”

Éowyn smiled at her kindly, but Hannelís’ grip tightened on her reins. A whisper of the same panic she had felt all those weeks in Rivendell swirled in her gut--the feeling of being trapped, and controlled. The king’s words _sounded_ generous…but his meaning mattered more. “Does that honor make me a subject of Rohan, your Grace?”

For nearly eighty years, she had not been _anyone’s_ subject. As sovereign, she had grown used to the idea of _having_ subjects, but _being_ subject…it was a strange feeling. It chafed against her desire for freedom. Yet a part of her also longed to dwell in Rohan, to build a home here. And was submitting to Rohan’s crown not an essential piece of belonging to this land? Perhaps _true_ freedom was too much to ask for--because to belong _anywhere,_ necessarily meant tying oneself to a people, a community, a home. And such a tie need not be a bad thing.

But Théoden’s surprise seemed genuine. “I had not considered as much. Your mother was a subject of Rohan, and you were born here…yet you have spent your life abroad, and much of it ruling a foreign kingdom.” He deliberated for a moment before saying, “I should think you are _not_ a subject, unless you had a mind to be. It is not a simple matter.”

No, she rather thought it was _not._ Hannelís appreciated the autonomy he afforded her. Had he wanted, she imagined he could have forced the issue--pressured her to decide on the spot, or made some determination on his own. After all, _he_ was the one with a crown.

After that, Éowyn and Éomer took turns asking Hannelís questions about Erebor and her travels--and once they learned she had first met Théoden when he was freshly home from Gondor and little more than a stripling, they wanted to know _everything_ of what their uncle was like in his daring, roguish youth. Hannelís was happy to oblige--though she opted _not_ to mention Théoden’s dalliance with Aragorn, to the king’s obvious gratitude.

Then, the focus returned to her. “Why have you never married?” asked Éowyn. The young lady had fawned over Hannelís’ battle-stories, limited though they were, and she seemed to expect some grand explanation now. As though Hannelís had eschewed love in favor of war, or something to that effect. She would have to disappoint her; the reason was not nearly so exciting.

“A lack of options, mainly,” she said in jest, before pivoting to a more serious answer: “In truth, I was betrothed to my cousin, Dáin’s son. But that betrothal is broken now, since it was tied to my being queen.”

“But you are not opposed to marriage?” asked Théoden, his interest apparent--though Hannelís could not imagine _why._

She considered his question. Her drawn-out hesitation to wed Thorin Stonehelm had more to do with Dáin’s hunger for power than any objection to the idea of marriage. If she could wed for love, then yes, she thought she would very much like to be married. She cast a glance over her shoulder, catching Aragorn’s eye. He smiled at her, and she turned back around, a frown pulling at her lips. _I love_ him, _but he does not feel the same._ “No,” she said at length, “I would not say I am opposed, no.”

That seemed to please the king. But before the Lord of the Mark could respond, a scout rounded the nearest hill and raced toward them on his mount, his blade dark with Orc-blood. At once, Théoden straightened to attention and Éomer swore under his breath, glancing back at the mass of unarmed women and children who were as yet oblivious to any danger.

“Wargs!” the scout cried. “Wargs and Orc-riders! We are under attack!”

Théoden’s response was immediate. He spun on his mount and raised his sword high, calling all eyes to him as he cried in a booming voice, “All riders to the head of column!”

The few soldiers who were not yet astride their horses quickly leapt into their saddles, and Hannelís saw Legolas pulling Gimli onto their shared mount. As one, the horse-lords bounded forward, eager to fight alongside their king. As they approached, Théoden twisted around to face Éowyn and Hannelís. “You must lead the people to Helm’s Deep--and make haste.”

“Yes, your Grace,” said Hannelís, already turning her horse back toward the people. She did not think to question the king’s order; the crowd was filled with young and old, sick and infirm. They could not defend themselves. They needed protecting, and Hannelís could help to do that.

Éowyn was not so quick to agree. “I can _fight,_ ” she argued, her eyes blazing and fierce.

“No!” cried Théoden, perhaps harder than intended. His voice softened as he said, “You must do this, for me. For Rohan.”

“We may _yet_ fight, my lady,” said Hannelís. _This is not the time to prove something._ She did not doubt Éowyn’s skill with a sword. But if everyone who _could_ fight went to meet the Orcs and Wargs now, then there would be none left to guard those who could _not_ fight. And if a stray Orc or Warg found them, anyway… _it would be a massacre._

Éowyn did not hide her frustration, but she submitted to her king’s command. And when she spun to face her people, who cried out in horror as their husbands and fathers and sons left them behind, a noble air took Éowyn--a spirit of courage and duty, borne out of her devotion for lord and land. And as her people realized _she_ had not abandoned them, too, a measure of their fear burned away. They awaited her orders.

“Make for the lower ground!” called Éowyn in a great voice. “Stay together! Helm’s Deep is not far.”

Indeed, as they hurried into the valley, the land opened up--and there was that ancient stronghold, wrought by the Men of Gondor in an age long past. But a vast expanse lay between them and the Deeping-coomb. There were still hills to summit, rivers to ford, before they would reach safety. But at least Helm’s Deep was in reach. _At least, there is that._

The sharp sounds of battle faded behind them, the clanging of swords and snarling of Wargs waning until Hannelís could almost imagine there was no danger at all. As the people surged past Helm’s Dike, the narrow hills that jutted out from the White Mountains and served as a first defense to the Hornburg, Hannelís found herself murmuring a prayer Balin had taught her once, as Thorin’s Company set out from the Shire.

“Y’hi ratzon milfanecha, Mahal Valareinu v’Valarei avoteinu, shetolichenu l’shalom.” _May it be your will, Mahal our Vala and Vala of our fathers, that you lead us toward peace._ “V’tatzilenu mikaf kol oyev v’orev baderech.” _May you rescue us from the hand of every foe and ambush on our way._ “Baruch atah Mahal, shomea tefilah.” _Blessed are you, Mahal, who hears prayer._ It was not the full prayer, because she could not remember all of it. But it brought her some small bit of comfort, and that was enough.

Hannelís glanced over her shoulder, back out into the Westfold. There were no enemies on the horizon. There were no horse-lords, either. That made her feel both better, and worse. They were close to Helm’s Deep now, too close for any distant foes to threaten them before they entered its gates. But the riders had yet to return.

Yet Gimli was with them, and Legolas, and Aragorn. Three hardy, skilled warriors. She told herself that meant the Men of Rohan would outlast their enemies, even though she knew in her heart it was not true. Even a great fighter could fall in battle. Her father’s death was proof of that.

Helm’s Deep was truly impressive. She had glimpsed it once from afar, when Aragorn led her to the edge of the Deeping-coomb during one of their rides into the Westfold. But it was only a distant fortress then, nestled deep in the sunken valley. Up close, it was incredible. Its immense stone walls were built for a siege, impassable save for a small culvert where the Deeping-stream flowed out from the White Mountains. The high wall that connected the fortress to the base of the mountains was twenty feet thick, with ample vantage points for archers.

Within the fortress of the Hornburg lay everything a besieged army might require: cisterns and food stores, barracks and stables, forges and armories. That did not mean the food stores were _full,_ or the tools unrusted. The last great siege had been centuries ago, when the Rohirrim under Helm Hammerhand had lasted a year within its walls before they finally wrested victory from the hands of the Dunlendings. That was the siege that earned Helm’s Deep its name, and its place of glory in Rohirric history.

From the moment they passed through the gates, Éowyn was a whirlwind. She commanded the crowd with confidence and ease, directing their supplies from Edoras to all the proper destinations and guiding her people to a place where they might find rest. For the tasks that needed doing, she relied heavily on the castellan, servants, and guardsmen who served at Helm’s Deep, only recruiting from the refugees when absolutely necessary.

It was clear the people loved her. Indeed, as Hannelís busied herself with the work of readying the Hornburg, she heard the crowd singing her praises. _The lady Éowyn, the lady Éowyn:_ protects, keeps, defends. She was devoted to her people--and her people, it seemed, returned that devotion with open hearts.

The riders returned just over an hour after their arrival, the thunder of a thousand hooves a herald of their coming. In the chaos of so many soldiers and horses appearing at once, Hannelís could not find her fellows. Even Legolas, whose Elf-look would normally distinguish him, was just another golden head in a sea of yellow. She hoped he was here somewhere, with Gimli in tow and Aragorn close behind…but she did not see them.

Éomer was the first horse-lord she recognized. “Lord Éomer!” she called, and he turned toward the sound of his name. When his eyes found her, his face darkened. He dismounted and led his horse to her, and with every step his sense of regret only grew, and her fear with it.

 _No._ Hannelís had not seen her friends because they had not survived. The thought hit her, and she stumbled back as though she really had been struck. _They cannot be dead._ But she had once believed the same of her kin, as the chill stole into her heart on Ravenhill.

“My lady…” began Éomer, reaching for the words Hannelís never wanted to hear. It was unlike him, this hesitance. Even though she had not known him long, he had not shied from the truth when he told the Four Hunters their friends had been slaughtered alongside Saruman’s Uruks. He had spoken plainly then. She wished he would spit it out now.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice harsher than she intended. _I do not care. He has already made me wait long enough._ “Who--”

“Aragorn.”

The name hung on the air, loud yet dull at the same time. On some level, Hannelís was sure she had not heard him right. Surely, he meant someone else. _Anyone else._

_Aragorn._

She tried to breathe, but the air caught in her throat. It felt like her heart was lodged there, suffocating her. “My lady,” she heard Éomer say, and there was so much _pity_ in those two words, it made her sick. Her eyes focused on him again, and she realized she was weeping. She had not noticed the tears in her eyes, or felt them on her cheeks…she saw it in _him._ In the way he was looking at her. With such concern, it ached.

“I am fine,” she said, but he did not believe her. He reached for her, as if to comfort her, but she pushed him away. She _thought_ she pushed him away. Instead, she grasped the strap that ran down his armor to his sword-belt and _pulled_ him to her. They crashed against each other, his arms tight around her. There was a stiffness to the way he held her, but he did not pull away. He stayed, and bore her grief as well as he could.

She did not let go until Legolas and Gimli found her, and there they wept together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love awkward yet pure intimate moments between almost-strangers. Just offering comfort in a moment of raw grief, love that. At least we know Aragorn isn’t really dead! But Hannelís, Legolas, and Gimli don’t know that.
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think! I love reading your comments! :)


	41. The Glittering Caves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannelís pledges her sword to Théoden and is given an important task.
> 
> Content warning for mention of rape in the context of wartime.

It seemed hopeless.

The Rohirrim had lost many riders in its battle against the Orcs and Wargs of Isengard. Worse, they had not had time to bear the bodies back to Helm’s Deep; the threat of their foes returning was too great. Already, they had glimpsed the beginning of Saruman’s army from a distance, marching forth from Nan Curunír. By nightfall, an even greater battle would await them.

And Aragorn was dead.

Hannelís was hardly aware of what she was doing as she aided in the frantic preparations around the Hornburg. Carry this here, unload that there. Every time she passed Gimli or Legolas, it was the same. Gimli completed his tasks with red eyes, a shadow of despair clinging to him wherever he went. And Legolas’ face was ever blank and hard, his initial sorrow worn away, leaving only dull shock in its wake. If her face told the tale of her grief, she did not know it.

Part of her was surprised Legolas and Gimli had remained. There had been a brief discussion, after those first tears had dried, when Legolas asked Gimli to go with him--to leave Rohan far behind them and make for home. _They must need us, too,_ he’d said then. What peril lay on the horizon for Thranduil and Dáin? If war came to Mirkwood and Erebor, Legolas thought, at least they could _be_ there to meet it. _Our people,_ he said. _We must protect them._

Gimli argued it would be faithless to abandon Rohan now. Aragorn had meant to stand by them, and so, too, should they. Anyway, there was no guarantee they could make it out of the Westfold before Isengard met them on an open field--would it not be better to meet them _here,_ safe in this fortress? As for home…war could well be there already. What use was their departure, if it benefited no one but themselves? _We have more courage than that._

And so Legolas stayed, for Gimli’s sake. But they all knew: he believed they were doomed.

Hannelís passed through the lower level of the Hornburg, carrying a crate of spearheads to the armory for repair. A great crowd was gathered at the gate, buzzing with excitement. At its center was a lone rider, bent over his horse. Someone helped him down. And then suddenly Gimli was there, pushing past her--“Lís, it’s him, it’s _him!_ ”

Because she could ask who _him_ was, Gimli grabbed the crate out of her arms and tossed it aside. He grasped her hand and dragged her through the crowd, his laughter booming as he shouted, “Where is he? Where is he--get out of the way, out of my way--I’m going to _kill_ him!”

The crowd parted around them--and there he was: _Aragorn._ Bruised, and more than a little bloodied. Wounded, yet whole. And here. _Alive._

Gimli pulled him into a tight hug, so rough it made Aragorn wince in pain. “You…” Gimli released him and shook his head, the laughter taking him again. He pointed a menacing finger at Aragorn and said, “ _You_ are the luckiest, the canniest, the most _reckless_ Man I ever knew. Chasdei Mahal, I am glad to see you.”

Aragorn grinned, but it was half a grimace. _He looks so tired._ Hannelís did not want to imagine what he had been through; the thought was too painful. Aragorn extended an arm toward her, and she went to him, and no embrace had ever felt so sweet. _Baruch Mahal. Thank Mahal, he is alive._ Gimli repeated the same words to himself, unable to hold them back in his joy: “Baruch Mahal, baruch Mahal.”

Their reunion was short-lived. War was on the horizon, and Aragorn had urgent news for the king. Legolas found them on their way to the top level of the Hornburg, where Théoden King was meeting with the other officers of the Riddermark. The Elf embraced Aragorn, and when he let go, his heart seemed change. Perhaps there was yet hope.

“A great host, you say?” That was all Théoden said, after Aragorn had described all he had seen on the road to Helm’s Deep: a mass of armed Uruks and Dunlendings, marching through the Westfold, already past the Fords of Isen. An endless column, stretching farther than he could see, an army beyond count. _A great host,_ indeed.

Éomer stood beside his uncle, stricken. Yet hearing Théoden’s apparent lack of fear, the horse-lord summoned his courage and swallowed his horror down. _He is so young,_ thought Hannelís then. Experienced in the ways of war, to be sure…but he had never seen an army such as this. She doubted any of them had. Even Aragorn’s battles against the forces of Mordor itself, when he fought alongside Ecthelion’s soldiers in Gondor, surely paled in comparison.

“All of Isengard is emptied,” answered Aragorn. “With the Dunlendings, they are ten thousand strong, at least, and well-armed at Saruman’s hand.”

Now Théoden’s cool mask broke, and he stared at Aragorn in disbelief, his voice little more than a whisper. “Ten thousand?”

Aragorn’s face was grave. “It is an army bred for a single purpose: to destroy Rohan. They will be here by nightfall.”

A heavy moment passed as the two lords stared at each other--and for the briefest instant, Théoden looked so _helpless._ Between Éomer’s éored and the other Rohirrim that had answered the Lord of the Mark’s call, Helm’s Deep was bursting with close to three thousand soldiers. Yet even that strength was nothing next to this.

Then, Théoden’s face hardened in resolve, and he made for the doors. “Let them come.”

Éomer and the officers followed him out onto the ramparts, where he paced and studied the preparations below. Aragorn and the others were close behind. “I want every Man able to bear arms,” Théoden said to an officer Hannelís thought was called Gamling, “young and old, to be fitted for battle.”

Gamling nodded with a _yes, your Grace_ and was gone, off to fulfill the king’s orders. As Théoden gazed out over the empty valley that would soon be teeming with Uruks and more, Hannelís saw his terror peak through--the horrible anticipation of what was to come, and the torturous knowledge that they were woefully unprepared. There was guilt there, too, shame that he had fallen so deeply under Gríma’s sway, to the detriment of himself, his family, his people.

And before she fully realized what she was doing, Hannelís stepped forward and unsheathed Orcrist, falling to her knees. “Your Grace,” she began as Théoden faced her, his face a mask once more, “I would be honored to fight in your name. I offer you my sword, to do with as you will.”

Perhaps it was his fear that had compelled her to say this, or the pull she felt toward Rohan and its people. She did not want to see it destroyed, this place of her birth and--possibly, she _hoped_ \--her future. Perhaps it was simply because they so desperately needed soldiers, and she wanted him to know she _was_ one. She was _one_ more blade, _one_ more fighter. And every soldier counted. Even one more _might_ be enough to make a difference.

Behind her, Gimli gasped. It occurred to her that it must seem strange, seeing the Dwarf who was for so long his queen, pledging her sword to another. And it _felt_ strange--and _right,_ too.

Théoden’s face was even, but his eyes smiled. “Gladly, I accept it, my lady,” he said, motioning for her to rise. “I would have you join Éowyn in a most important charge: you shall join the women and children in the Glittering Caves, and keep safe those who cannot fight.”

She stared at him as the meaning of his words sunk in. _He does not want me to fight._ The tunnel to the caves would be barricaded; she knew this already. He did not want her to _guard_ the barricade, to prevent its destruction. No, he wanted her _inside_ the caves, where her blade would only be needed if all else failed--if Saruman’s army broke through the Deeping-wall and invaded the Hornburg and tore the barricade to shreds. She could fight…if all three thousand Rohirrim were slaughtered. Then it would be two swords, hers and Éowyn’s, against thousands.

 _He doesn’t want me to fight._ That was the truth of it. It was different from leading the people to Helm’s Deep in the face of Saruman’s Wargs; on the plains of Rohan, the women and children were completely exposed. Any stray Orc or Warg could have cut them down. Hannelís’ sword _mattered_ then. The danger was immediate, the people needed saving…but _this_ was not _that._ If the time came for her to use Orcrist now, it would already be too late. _If I am fighting, then Rohan is already fallen._

The anger rose fast in Hannelís, but she fought to hide it. She lowered Orcrist to her side, her grip tightening on its hilt. “Your Grace,” she began again, half through her teeth, “I have seen battle. Please allow me to fight alongside the Rohirrim now.”

It was a mistake. Théoden King was not smiling now. Beside him, Éomer seemed impressed, in an amused sort of way. He liked her boldness; Théoden did not. “Your passion is noted, my lady,” the king said, heat lurking beneath his words, “but my command has been given. It is a worthy charge. I would not have you question me again.”

 _He is the king, not me._ She was beneath him. She hated it, but it was true. It wounded her pride…but there was nothing to be done about it. She sheathed Orcrist and bowed her head. “Forgive me, your Grace. I will do as you ask.”

But he had not asked; he had _commanded._ He seemed to have half a mind to correct her on that point, but instead he dismissed her and carried on with his plans. Hannelís stormed off with as much dignity as she could muster, heading to the lower levels where at least she could be of some real, practical use before the battle. Her rib ached from everything she had carried already, but she bore sacks of food down to the caves until the pain in her side forced her to stop.

Aragorn found her there near the culvert of the Deeping-wall, stealing a moment’s rest. “It was not wise of you to challenge the king in front of his officers,” he said, leaning against the great stone wall beside her.

“He said he needed every sword,” she answered, shifting Orcrist so she could sit more comfortably. “He cannot afford to deny anyone who can fight. It is the wrong decision.”

“That may be,” said Aragorn evenly. He glanced around to ensure no one had heard Hannelís openly criticizing the king’s judgment--but everyone was too busy with preparations to pay them any mind. “But it is _his_ decision. In pledging your sword to him, you gave up the right to make your own choice.”

It was a harsh truth, but being difficult to hear did not make it false. “I shouldn’t have done it, then.” But it was too late to go back on her vow, and they both knew it. She pushed off from the ground and faced him. “How am I supposed to bear it? How do I just _sit_ there, cowering in the darkness, waiting to find out if we will live or die? It is cruel.”

“It is,” agreed Aragorn. “It is cruel for _all_ who must stand by and wait while others fight on their behalf. But I believe it will be some small comfort to them to have you and Éowyn near. Perhaps it will make them feel a little less helpless. Even _if_ all went ill, at least they would spend their final moments with some measure of hope, instead of feeling entirely defenseless. You will give them that.”

His words were a small comfort. Hannelís repeated them to herself as she descended into the Glittering Caves for the final time, after all the supplies had been transported below and the very last of the refugees were safe within the massive cavern. And when the first sounds of battle began far above them, Hannelís made herself look brave. “They cannot touch us here,” she said to those nearest her and Éowyn. She hoped her smile was convincing.

Time passed slowly in the Glittering Caves. At least they were beautiful. They had been discovered long ago by the Númenóreans, Aragorn told her. It was they who had dug these tunnels and chambers, carved these ancient steps. The stone walls were polished smooth, adorned with gems and crystals. Unmined veins of ore wove throughout the hall, treasures waiting to be unleashed. Being beneath the mountains felt good to Hannelís, safe and firm and Dwarven. _This would not be a terrible place to die._

Still, the waiting was horrible. Éowyn gazed up at the cavernous stone ceiling, watching water drip down the massive stalactites that clung to the roof of the cave. It was raining outside. The sounds of battle were so distant, so muted, Hannelís could almost imagine they were not there at all. Instead, her ears were filled with wailing babes and the coos of their mothers trying in vain to soothe them. Even when the children quieted, their cries echoed throughout the vast cavern, ringing in her ears. It was maddening.

“I hate it here,” murmured Éowyn.

 _Don’t we all?_ Everyone was miserable. But Hannelís’ frustration went deeper than their peril and discomfort. “How do you stand it?” she asked, and Éowyn looked at her. Hannelís gestured vaguely around the cave. “Being stuck here, when we could be _doing_ something, helping your uncle win. We are no use here.”

“We have a use,” the young lady answered evenly.

Hannelís felt her face twist in anger. “Yes, to _keep safe the people,_ ” she said, remembering Théoden’s words. Despite her displeasure, she kept her voice low, so that only Éowyn could hear. “We are guards of a last resort, but it is a _false_ resort, a _lie._ We are only here for show, to make them _think_ they are protected. But if the Uruks make it through that door, we are already dead. They will slaughter _everyone,_ and we will be powerless to stop it. What are two swords against an army?”

She expected Éowyn to agree. Instead, she answered, “That is not what my uncle meant when he spoke of protecting the people.” Her gaze drifted to a nearby mother, who was trying to coax her daughter to sleep. But the girl was too cold, and there were no more blankets to go around.

At last, Éowyn continued, her eyes never leaving the young family: “You are right. We cannot _truly_ protect them, not so they leave these caves and watch the sun rise over the Westfold, not if the Uruks come.” Her hand drifted to her sword hilt. For a moment, Hannelís was sure her hand was shaking--but then it steadied. “If the Uruks and Dunlendings come, then yes, we are already lost. But we may spare our people further pain and torment.”

A long silence passed before Hannelís realized what Éowyn meant. The lady’s words turned to ice in her heart, and she shivered. “He wants us to kill them?” She could not keep the disgust from her voice.

Sorrow flickered across the young lady’s face, only for a moment. “It is a mercy,” she whispered, her eyes hardening to stone. “These Uruks are new to us, but we know what war means. Orcs slay us, but it is slow. They do not release us until we beg for death, for an end to the torture.”

Her voice grew hotter as she continued: “But the Dunlendings are worse. Their hatred goes beyond Orkish bloodlust. For them, it is personal. Some of us, they _will_ kill. We know that from their raiding. They kill us…because they cannot _take_ all of us. And the ones that survive…we are enslaved, raped and beaten, condemned to lives of degradation and torment. And that is no life. That is only another death, a _worse_ death.”

Éowyn’s eyes found hers. “My uncle would not have that be our people’s fate. Nor would I.” Her fingers traced the horse carved into her blade’s hilt, almost absent-mindedly…but Hannelís knew she was imagining what she might be forced to do, if the battle went ill. “It is an evil fate, either way. But one fate is kinder than the other.”

It was horrible. There was no other way to describe it. Yet Hannelís understood, all the same. She had lived through a great battle long ago…yet she had not known a lifetime of war like Éowyn had. Until now, Erebor had enjoyed decades of peace, with even the growing threat of Dol Guldur only touching its farthest borders with Mirkwood.

Fate had been less kind to Rohan. Dunland was ever on its doorstep, tearing away at the Westfold as it searched for an advantage, a weakness. And raids from Mordor, too, were common. Before they had left Edoras, Gimli had angered Éomer by citing a rumor that Rohan paid tribute to Mordor, sending them black steeds each year in exchange for their lives. No, Éomer had answered--they would not give their horses into such wicked hands. But Orcs _did_ steal into Rohan to terrorize and plunder, carrying off black horses wherever they could find them. There were almost none left now, the horse-lord had said with wrath and regret.

From east and west, Rohan was beset. And now Saruman had openly declared for Mordor, and set his full force against them…Hannelís could not appreciate what it must have been like for Éowyn and Éomer to grow up surrounded by such peril. But knowing the horrors they had witnessed, she understood how Éowyn would do anything in her power to prevent those horrors from being visited on herself and her people.

“Forgive me,” murmured Hannelís, and Éowyn looked at her, her brow pulling together in confusion. Hannelís hastened to explain herself. “I judged your uncle’s decision, because…I could not imagine a world in which it was the _right_ choice. Because I did not appreciate all that your people have already endured.”

Slowly, Éowyn nodded. “Obviously, we hope his command goes unfulfilled,” she said, “that it is not needed.”

“Amen.” It was not a prayer, exactly, what Éowyn had said--but Hannelís heard it that way, anyway. _May Mahal preserve us._

The horrible waiting continued, wearing into the late watches of the night. For a time, the sounds of battle grew ever closer, and Éowyn watched her people in grief as she fingered her blade, ready to leap into action at a moment’s notice. A part of Hannelís knew it must be dawn now, or just past, though the Glittering Caves were as dim as ever. She wished she would live to see the sun again. She closed her eyes, as though she could feel the warm rays dancing on her skin, the light shining like gold in her hair. It made her heart ache, imagining it.

The sounds were getting louder.

No, they were not quite the noises of battle; there were no more clangs or shouts. Yet a large force was drawing near, thundering down the long tunnel, past the barricade. Hannelís and Éowyn rose as one. They positioned themselves so that the door was directly before them, but at a distance. So they would know the moment all was truly lost, the moment the Uruks and Dunlendings came crashing through--but not _so_ close that their enemies could strike them down before they had begun their duty.

Something hard hit the door, and Hannelís flinched. _It is not so bad,_ she told herself. _You will see Abba soon._

Another bang, a fumbling with the handle, and then--

Éomer barreled through the door, dozens of soldiers behind him--Rohirric soldiers, _their_ soldiers. They were filthy and drenched and bloody, but they were _here._ Rohan had won. Relief rippled through the crowd, and Hannelís’ ears rang with the overlapping cries of joy.

And when Éomer found Éowyn in the crowd, a smile brighter than a thousand suns burst across his face, and he ran to her, lifting her in his arms and spinning her in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A massive s/o to Ellie (ohelrond) for talking through so much of this story with me, and especially for helping me out with this chapter. I had never considered the possibility of Éowyn being stationed in the Glittering Caves for a real (very morbid) purpose, and I feel like that added a lot of depth/emotion to the scene. Who knows if it ever crossed Tolkien’s mind, but it makes a certain kind of tragic sense, and fits with his interest in revealing the horrors of war.
> 
> Anyway, I hope y’all enjoyed! We’re going back to Edoras next chapter for a lighter chapter, so that should be nice. As always, please let me know your thoughts--I love to read your comments! :)


	42. Of Hope and Consolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Helm’s Deep, Théoden throws a victory feast.

Upon their return to Edoras, Théoden King called a great feast. With the arrival of Erkenbrand and other high-ranking officers, there were even fewer rooms to go around, and Éowyn welcomed Hannelís to share her bed. The young lady of Rohan lent her a gown, too, for the festivities. Éowyn wore a delicate blue dress with golden embroidery across the bodice. Hannelís chose a simpler gown of crimson. She thought it a suiting, Rohirric color. The skirts were still too long, of course--but Éowyn was shorter than Arwen, so at least she was not tripping over herself.

The mead hall was full to bursting, and flowing with food and drink. After the dead were honored and dinner was served, the tables and chairs were pushed to the sides to make room for dancing. The music struck up at once, joyful and roaring. Hannelís gazed out around the hall, taking in the revelry. It was refreshing, after so much despair--a reminder that even in dark times, hope yet remained.

She caught Aragorn’s eye from across the way. Like another celebration in Edoras long ago, he was leaning against a pillar, watching the dancing. When he saw her, he smiled and gave a nod, inviting her to join him. She could not help but smile back. She was halfway through the mass of dancers when someone touched her shoulder lightly.

“Lady Durin.”

Hannelís turned to find Éomer there, grinning at her. Like many of the Men twirling throughout the mead hall, his yellow hair was braided. Two thin plaits framed his face, and thicker braids wove around his head, reflecting like gold in the candlelight. The rest of his hair was left down, and when he shifted to avoid a dancing pair, she was rewarded with a sweet, woody scent. His raiment was fine, a perfect mix of Rohirric colors, vibrant red and a darker, muted green. She had to admit it was all rather becoming.

Her answering smile was curious. “What did you call me?”

Éomer’s grin widened, and he dipped his head courteously, gesturing across the hall where Théoden was drinking with the other officers. “That is what my uncle has taken to calling you,” he explained. “You are a lady of Rohan by blood, but that is not _all_ you are.”

He paused, and Hannelís asked, “What am I, then?”

The young horse-lord lifted his goblet as if to toast her. “My lady, the blood of Durin, of course. You may no longer be Queen under the Mountain, yet there is something decidedly _Dwarvish_ about you--or so my uncle thinks. A headstrong sort of boldness. He thinks you fierce,” he said appreciatively.

“And is that a good thing, in his mind?” she asked. “My Dwarvishness?”

Now Éomer laughed. “It is a complicated thing, he thinks. He is unused to being challenged by his subjects.”

Hannelís bristled at that. “I am not his subject.”

Éomer’s smile broke, and he hurried to say, “Of course--and the king agrees. You swore your sword in battle. That is what he meant: being challenged by those _in his service,_ even if the conditions of that service are fleeting.”

She tried not to look _too_ relieved. Éomer plainly adored his uncle; she would not want him to think she disliked Théoden. Not that she _did_ dislike him…she just wished he had let her _fight._ After that blunder of a pledge, she was not keen to make any further commitment to him or Rohan just yet.

“I wish we might have fought alongside one another,” said Éomer, as though he knew her thoughts. Still, there was a teasing edge to his voice; even if he _had_ guessed her thoughts, she had the nagging suspicion he did not take her seriously. “Perhaps we could spar sometime,” he continued, his grin returning.

Something in the _way_ he smiled at her made her think he was interested in more than sparring. Indeed, she thought he was just about to ask her to dance when a group of soldiers called to him. “Lord Éomer!” They made a great show of whooping and waving him over--and one of them lifted a massive keg over his head. Near them, Hannelís spotted Legolas and Gimli eying the rowdy group with interest. Gimli was clearly trying to convince Legolas to join him in drinking with them; the Elf looked less sure.

Again, Éomer laughed and bowed his head to Hannelís once more. “You must excuse me, my lady,” he said, “I have promised my éored a drinking game, and they will have my head if I disappoint them.” As he made his way to the now-cheering Men, he threw one last smile over his shoulder and shouted, “Save a dance for me!”

Hannelís rolled her eyes, trying not to smile and failing badly. She slipped through the spinning pairs in the center of the hall until she reached Aragorn on the other side. His eyes moved from Éomer, who had busied himself with laying down the rules for the drinking contest, to Hannelís, and he grinned wickedly. “Don’t,” she warned before he could say anything.

“He likes you,” said Aragorn, before bowing his head much like Éomer had and adding, “my lady.”

Hannelís shoved him, rolling her eyes once more. “Stop it,” she murmured. Yes, Éomer _did_ like her, it seemed. She watched him for a moment, as he waved over Legolas and Gimli. The Dwarf clapped his hands together and bounded over, thrilled at the invitation. She shook her head. “He is very young.”

“He is a Man grown,” answered Aragorn, “and heir to the throne of Rohan. If all goes well, he will need to take a wife.”

_If all goes well._ That was quite the way to put it. If Frodo destroyed the Ring, if Sauron was destroyed, if Mordor was defeated. “Imagine,” she mused, “giving up one crown, only to receive another.”

She was not sure how she felt about wedding a future king. In truth, she had wondered what it might be like…but not with Éomer. “And so will you,” she said, “need to take a wife, I mean, when _you_ become king.”

Aragorn did not respond to that. Together, they watched the dancers, and Hannelís quickly spotted Théoden. The Lord of the Mark had abandoned his officers and was now spinning around the floor with his niece. They were both laughing. It was good to see Éowyn like this, her sorrow melted away. Tonight, her smile shone like a beacon, and her yellow hair spilled down her back like the rays of the sun. The young shieldmaiden of Rohan was a vision of pure light.

Now, Aragorn _did_ speak. “She is beautiful.”

Hannelís looked up at him; he, too, was watching the king dance with Éowyn. Hannelís tried to ignore the spark of jealousy that shot through her then. She turned back to watch the dancers. “I think she loves you.” Hannelís had seen Éowyn stealing glances at Aragorn, on the road to Helm’s Deep and ever since. She’d even spotted them together more than once, and Éowyn always looked on him with the same air of adoration. Her infatuation was obvious.

“She is young,” said Aragorn, and then he laughed, knowing precisely what Hannelís would say next.

“She is a woman grown,” she answered, dropping her voice in a passable impression of Aragorn.

“Yes,” he had to agree.

They watched as the song died down and the dancers, for a moment, stilled on the floor. Then a new song rose, and their twirling began anew. A long silence stretched between them before Hannelís nudged Aragorn and asked, “Are you enjoying the music?”

It took him a moment to remember, and then a chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Someone once told me the Men of Rohan know good cheer.”

Hannelís grinned before nodding out into the hall. “Do you see any of them tonight? Your old conquests?”

A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. The air of mischief made him look younger, and for a moment, he could have been the dashing ranger she had met here fifty years ago. “Many are gone,” he said, and the smirk was gone, replaced with a hint of grief. “I _have_ found some old friends--though most have avoided me.”

Hannelís laughed. “Well, they’re probably all married now, aren’t they? They never imagined their youthful indiscretions would come back to haunt them like this.”

His smirk returned in full. “I suppose they did not.”

Her eyes landed on Théoden and Éowyn once more. “And the king? What does he think of your return?”

Aragorn sighed. “In truth?” he said, and she nodded. He grew somber. “He is ashamed. That is what he confessed to me, on the road back from Helm’s Deep. That, had he known my true name, and what it meant…he would not have dishonored me so.”

He was clearly regretful. “I know you did not think of dishonor when you sought his companionship--or mine,” she said, hastening to comfort him. “That was not your intent.”

“An _intent_ to not harm doesn’t matter if harm happens, anyway.” _He is too hard on himself,_ she thought. He sighed again. “I was lonely and heartsick, and desperate to _not_ feel those things. And I was young…less wise, perhaps, and certainly less afraid.”

“Afraid?” Aragorn was one of the bravest people she had ever known. But fear was often a part of bravery.

“The threat of Mordor was not so great, and my obligation to stand against it, my future in Gondor, my _fate…_ felt so far away. It was easier to be fearless then.” He sounded almost wistful.

Raucous laughter boomed across the hall, followed by a sudden chorus of _oh!_ as Gimli tumbled out of his seat and hit the floor, his beard frothy from all the ale. Legolas, it seemed, had won the drinking contest Éomer had set between them. He blinked down at the Dwarf for a long moment, before giving a yelp and crying, “Gimli!”

As Legolas shook his shoulders, Gimli swatted him away, mumbling, “I’m fine, I’m _fine…_ ” But he did not have the energy to say it again. He hiccuped and passed out in the Elf’s arms, and immediately commenced the loudest snoring Hannelís had ever heard. He was plainly not _fine._

Legolas scooped up Gimli, cradling him as if he was light as a babe. The Elf bore him off to the side hall that had been prepared for guests sleeping in Meduseld, stuffed wall-to-wall with cots and blankets. As they left the party, Aragorn murmured, “I am glad for them. They are oddly suited to one another.”

There was a sadness in his voice. Hannelís suspected he was thinking of Arwen. That only made _her_ feel lonely, too. Everyone else seemed to have _someone_ here. Gimli and Legolas were already devoted to each other, Merry and Pippin were inseparable, and Éomer and Éowyn orbited around their uncle like he was the sun. The only other person who was alone was Gandalf--but he did not mind. Indeed, he seemed to enjoy not being bothered by anyone else, watching the revelers with a mirthful eye as he refilled his pipe for the third time tonight.

At least Hannelís and Aragorn had their loneliness in common. With a painful twinge, she remembered what it had felt like in that handful of hours, barely a day ago, when she thought he was dead. She had not said a proper farewell, and that tormented her. How she had longed for one more word, one more touch. The dead were always gone too soon.

But Aragorn was alive. He was here now, beside her. And even though he still loved Arwen, and even though she believed his heart would never really be hers, her hand reached for his. Their fingers laced together, and he met her gaze. Wordlessly, she pulled him out of the hall.

When they had passed beyond the sight of the dancers, Hannelís turned and found his eyes once more. She held him in her gaze, breathing deep, while her heart thudded in her chest. Aragorn stepped closer, his eyes never leaving hers. His lips parted slightly, and her stomach fluttered in desire. At last, she found her voice. “Will you lie with me?”

“Yes,” he breathed, and drew her into him.

His lips brushed against hers, soft at first, and then more urgent. He tasted like wine, bitter on her tongue. His hand pressed against her back, pushing them flush together--but even that was not close enough. With his other hand, he reached around her to twist the doorknob behind them. They stumbled back into the unoccupied chamber. As soon as the door was bolted, they were joined once more, his fingers already fumbling with her bodice.

After her gown was dealt with, they made quick work of Aragorn’s clothes. Then they were on the bed, and he kissed his way down her, minding the green-yellow bruising at her side. He lingered at her hips before inching lower. His lips moved against her then, and her hand flew to her mouth just in time to stifle the moan that burst out of her. He carried her to her peak while she gripped the sheets, and when it crested over her, the sheets came loose with a loud _pop_ as they yanked off the mattress.

“Fuck,” she moaned--but the word was cut off by his lips on hers again, rough and hungry. She drew him into another deep kiss, only pulling away long enough to say, “Please, I need you.” He did not make her wait longer.

At the point of climax, Aragorn said her name, just once: _Arwen._ His voice was thick with longing and heartache, and after it was done, he pulled away and turned his back to her. For a long time, they lay there in silence like that, the only sound the dim crackling from the fire. Once, Hannelís thought she heard him weeping…but then all was quiet again, and she could not be sure she had heard him at all.

She tried not to let it bother her. _You knew he loved her._ Yet it still stung.

Hannelís was the first to stir. She slipped out of bed and pulled on her underdress. She had just gotten her arms through the sleeves of Éowyn’s gown when Aragorn turned back to her. “Oh,” he murmured, pushing himself off of the bed. He donned his trousers, fastening them as he asked, “Would you like me to help you dress?”

“No,” she said quickly, “it’s--” But she was making a mess of the ties. The gown was much different than the styles common to Erebor and Dale. Dwarven fashion tended toward practicality; two ties, _maybe_ three, and that was that. The bodice of this dress was ridiculous, there were at least a dozen tiny holes that the ties had to go through, and the ties needed tightening along the way or it looked all wrong… “It’s hopeless,” she muttered.

Aragorn’s smile was kind but sad. _Why must he look so sad?_ It was hard not to take it personally. “You know,” he said as he took over for her, “I am often amused when people speak of hope. Hopeful, hopeless. Growing up in Rivendell, I was called Estel.”

Despite her frustration, Hannelís felt her lips curl into a begrudging smile. “Hope,” she translated from the Sindarin. She met his eyes, but when she saw the grief there, she had to look away, lest she weep herself. “I suppose it isn’t hopeless, then.”

“No, it is not.” With his help, the bodice was much more manageable, and soon they were both dressed. The hallway was much quieter when they left the chamber. Voices could still be heard from the mead hall, but they were subdued, in the sated, tired way revelers spoke at the end of a long celebration. The music had ended.

“Éowyn will be waiting for me,” said Hannelís. Together, they walked silently through the passageway into the great hall of Meduseld--and there she was, the daughter of kings, sleeping on a chaise beside a brazier.

She looked so peaceful, Hannelís considered leaving her there. But the flames were waning, and already, she was shivering. Her cloak was sliding off her. Hannelís moved forward to catch it before it fell to the ground--but Aragorn got there first. Gently, he pulled the fur collar up to her neck. As his touch receded, Éowyn stirred.

“What time is it?” she asked, her eyes still closed.

His answer was soft, barely a whisper. “Not yet dawn.”

Éowyn grabbed his hand and looked at him, her eyes wide with fear and desperation. “I dreamed I saw a great wave climbing over green lands, above the hills. I stood upon the brink. It was utterly dark in the abyss before my feet. A light shone behind me, but I could not turn, I could not _turn…_ ” Her eyes shone with tears. “I could only stand there, waiting.”

If Aragorn was disturbed by her dream, he gave no sign of it. “Night changes many thoughts,” he told her, giving her hand a squeeze before withdrawing his touch. With his other hand, he beckoned Hannelís closer. “Sleep, my lady.”

Then Éowyn’s eyes found her. She was still visibly shaken, but Hannelís could see exhaustion quickly coming over her again. She slipped an arm around Éowyn’s shoulders and lifted her to her feet. “Come, my lady,” she said as Aragorn stepped out of Meduseld into the night beyond, “let’s get you to bed.”

When they reached her chambers, Éowyn did not pause to change out of her gown before climbing into bed. Briefly, Hannelís considered doing the same, as she, too, was exhausted, and did not particularly want to be bothered with unlacing her bodice again. But she managed it, with some effort.

When she finally slipped into bed, she thought Éowyn was already asleep. But before Hannelís drifted off to sleep, she heard Éowyn murmur, “He is so very kind. My lord is _too_ kind…” And then no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor, lovesick Hannelís. Aragorn is too heartbroken to love her…but at least Éomer seems interested? Anyway, this setting (with the feast, etc.) is so similar to when they first met, I thought it was the perfect moment for them to finally consummate their reunion. But poor babies, they’re both sad for different reasons, it’s really more comfort than anything else. Alas. We do love Aragorn and Hannelís’ affirmative consent.
> 
> Anyway, hope y’all enjoyed! As always, please let me know your thoughts! :)


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